One night stand
by BelstaffJumper
Summary: Johnlock AU meeting. What if John had met Sherlock before he was deployed? They meet briefly and both were deeply affected by that, more so than they had anticipated. The title should give you a hint... Rated M to be safe.
1. How do you do?

**A/Notes:** Instead of editing two older stories of mine, this idea sprung out of nowhere and took all the little free time I had in the past few months. Then amongst other things, I couldn't decide on which way to go. I had everything except for the middle of the story. I decided to stop fretting and just set it free for your enjoyment. So, here it is, a little Johnlock AU for you. There'll be ten chapters in this one and, as usual, I'll post one a day.

And the disclaimer, not mine. Obviously. - Sigh -

Has not been betaed, nor Brit-picked. Only unabashedly feel good slightly lemony Johnlock.

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 **1\. How do you do?**

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'Afghanistan or Iraq?'

It took a few seconds for the blond young man to become aware of what the stranger sitting next to him at the bar had just said. He turned, but the man was facing forward, taking a sip of his drink, not looking in his direction. Was the question meant for him? The stranger was thin and tall, with black and curly hair that he wore longish. He was wearing an expensive looking suit with a white shirt opened at the neck, no tie.

With a wrinkled forehead and eyes flickering from side to side the blond man said, 'Excuse me?'

'Afghanistan or Iraq?' the stranger repeated, looking into his drink.

He remained with his mouth open, trying to process the odd question. Did he know this man?

The stranger sighed and finally turned to face him, gesturing with an open palm.

'Buzz cut, dog tags, clearly on leave, sitting on a pub, supposedly looking for recreation more than rest. Your typically British fair complexion and general healthy appearance suggests that you are not returning from anywhere dangerous or exotic, but heading out. Given the current political situation, most likely you are going to either Afghanistan or Iraq, and this will probably be your first tour of duty. So, which one is it, Afghanistan or Iraq?'

'Oh, em, yeah. I guess.' He cleared his throat, 'Afghanistan.'

'I see your mate found his recreation,' he tilted his head towards another fellow chatting up a brunette. 'But you don't seem to be trying. Recent break-up,' he gestured towards the bar counter.

'What?' The blond man lifted his arms and looked down at the beat up wood bar counter. Then he turned back, wide-eyed. 'How-?'

'Your watch. Expensive. Given your clothes on a night out, you are clearly not the kind of person that worries about brands or status. The brand and cost of the watch indicates a gift. Now the question is: from whom? Parent, wife or girlfriend? Not wife, as you're obviously single and haven't been married. Parent or relative would be plausible, but you are about to leave the country and you're not spending time with family. That strongly suggests that your family is not around, or at least, not close by. This particular model came out last year, so if it's from a relationship, it was a serious one, you had been together for a few years at least. Once again, you are not spending your time with a loved one, which also suggests she's not around anymore. Furthermore, your watch is scuffed, you wear it every day as a tool. The state of the watch indicates the state of your (now former) relationship. You only came here tonight because your mate over there asked you to be his "wingman". Instead of flirting you have been seating on that stool all gloomy and depressed, occasionally rubbing your fingers on the watch: recent break-up.

You kept the watch, so _she_ broke up with you. Had it been the other way around, you wouldn't have kept it, let alone be rubbing it at every five minutes. A break-up right before you are to go to a war zone? It's highly likely (predictable, actually) that she suggested you two should marry once she learned you were going to be deployed; you did not say yes because you had doubts. Facing rejection, she broke up with you. You have no desire for a quick shag because you are still wondering whether or not you've made a mistake. The answer is no, she was not for you. If you truly loved her, there would be no doubts on your part. The relationship was doomed to begin with, you leaving only sped up its demise.'

The blond stared open mouthed. 'How-? You mean you could tell all that just by looking at my watch?'

'Your watch, your hands, your clothes, your demeanour. One only has to observe,' he shrugged and sipped his drink.

'That was- that's amazing!'

The stranger frowned and turned to stare at him. 'Amazing?'

'Yes, that was impressive. A bit rude actually but still, impressive.'

Frowning slightly, the stranger paused, then chuckled. Then, as if there had been no break he asked, 'So when do you leave?'

'In two days. My friend and I are to report to our base tomorrow afternoon and on Monday we fly directly to Camp Bastion in Afghanistan.'

'Strange.'

'What is?'

'You're about to go to a war zone and you don't seem concerned.'

'I guess there's no reason in worrying until there is reason to worry. I've got work to do, I'll concentrate on that first.'

'Interesting.'

'What is?'

The stranger paused but didn't answer. Instead, he proffered his hand, 'Scott.'

'John,' he shook the hand.

'So why did you enlist at this particular time?'

'Well-'

'Adventure, danger, all the romantic notions of best seller books and movies?'

'No, I-'

'You couldn't just sit still, you wanted to be part of the action.'

'Well, in-'

'Your life with the boring girlfriend was leading to marriage and you wanted out. A bit of an overly dramatic solution, don't you think?'

'She wasn't boring!'

'Then why are you here? And leaving?'

'Listen, I don't even know you, why are you telling me all this?'

'I'm just stating the obvious truth. Which is, there is no reason for you to mope for her. She was not worth it.'

'Amen to that, brother!' John's friend spoke, clasping a big hand on each of the men's shoulders.

'Shut up, Bill. Not you too!'

'She was just clingy and annoying, mate. I told you that a million times. I don't know why you had settled for her. Well, at least you got a nice watch out of it.'

John stared daggers at Bill. Scott smirked as he had all his observations confirmed. Not that it was needed.

'I'm Bill,' he offered his hand. 'Are you a friend of John's?'

'No, we're just talking. I'm Scott,' he shook his hand.

'Oh, right. Hey listen, John,' he lowered his voice. 'I'm about to get lucky with Britney there,' he thumbed towards his chest indicating the girl a few tables behind him, smiling at them. 'I'm sorry to ask you, but-'

'Christ Bill, not again!' He sighed and turned forward. 'How long?'

'Maybe an hour? And a half?'

'An-' John almost yelled, then whispered, 'An hour and a half?'

'Please mate? I'll trade as many shifts as you want once we get there. I promise.'

'It's almost chucking out time, what am I supposed to do for the next hour and a half?'

'Hey, why don't you try that redhead over there? She's been looking in this direction.'

'Bill, if she's looking in this direction, I guarantee you she's not looking at me. Go away already and text me once you're done, will you?'

'Thanks, mate. I owe you!'

'Oh yes, you do. And you _will_ pay me back for this.'

'Cheers, boys!' he raised his glass and downed the rest of his pint. 'Gotta go,' he added slapping John's arm.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

'He always does that to you, doesn't he? Does he actually pay his debts?'

John chuckled, 'Sometimes. Well, most of the times, to be fair.'

'Well John, if you need suggestions, I can give you a list of places that are open late. There aren't many, but I know of a few options, depending on what you're looking for. You don't seem to be a heavy drinker, but there are a few places to get a drink, as well as coffee, bagels or manicure. Not that you seem to be the type to get manicures.'

'I take you live in London?'

'No. Just here for business. I just happen to be an insomniac, so one does get to learn one's meagre options out of sheer necessity.'

'Well, I need a few suggestions, it seems. Hold on, let me take notes,' John pulled his phone from his back pocket and Scott gave him a small list of places that stayed open late.

'Thanks', John shook his phone before pocketing it back. 'This list will be very useful.'

Scott smiled and inhaled to speak. But someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned away from John. The redhead that Bill was talking about was now sitting next to Scott, smiling.

'Hello there,' she flung her long hair over her shoulder, holding a glass with a reddish cocktail with a tiny yellow umbrella.

John looked at her and turned forward again, sipping his pint. _I told Bill she wasn't looking at me. With someone like him sitting next to me, I'm invisible. Plus she's way out my league._ He felt a bit self conscious; he was wearing only a plain t-shirt (granted, it did wonders showing his body), jeans and an old leather jacket that he had draped on the stool under him. He was no match for Scott's expensive suit.

Scott spoke to her in a low voice, so John shut it out. He just wasn't in the mood to listen to yet another man chatting up yet another woman and go home with her while he sat there alone, feeling sorry for himself. He regretted having agreed to come already, and even more so for sharing a hotel room with Bill. _When will I ever learn?_

They were right though. His relationship with Angela had been flagging for a while, the initial spark that had brought them together was gone. There was no sense-

'Why are you still dwelling on your doomed relationship?'

John jerked his head and frowned at Scott, who was still talking to him, no redhead to be found anywhere. He leaned back, looking for her beyond Scott.

'She's gone.'

'I thought- what happened? I was sure you would soon be going home with her too.'

'Nah. She's carrying a sexually transmitted disease and didn't even know it yet. I broke the news to her.'

John stared open mouthed. 'Sexu- what does she have? How could you tell?'

'She had skin lesions often seen in people with gonorrhoea of the throat. I asked her if she's been having a sore throat lately. Most people don't even know they are infected because not always there are noticeable symptoms - like pain during urination, for example. That's the problem with people who don't think unprotected oral sex is dangerous. I advised her to seek medical help.'

'Are you a doctor?'

'No.'

'How did you recognise the skin lesions?'

'Just common sense precaution,' Scott shrugged. 'One only has to be observant.'

'Phew! That was a narrow escape.'

'Hardly.'

John mulled it over for a few seconds, then let one hand fall on the counter. 'God, now I feel bad for her!'

'No need to. Antibiotics should take care of it.'

'You know Scott, there are definitely good reasons to have your skills. Applicable good reasons.'

Scott smirked. 'I know.'

'So, if you're not a doctor, what do you do? You said you're here for business.'

'I'm a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company.'

John smiled, 'That explains it.'

'My background is actually in Chemistry.'

'Ah, that makes sense. I'm curious though.'

'About what?'

'Why aren't _you_ looking for recreation on a Saturday night?'

'Look around John. Do you see anyone suitable?'

He looked up at the mirror behind the bar and swept the pub. There were several women that, had he been in the mood for it, he would've tried to talk to. But for someone like Scott, none were in his league. Except for the redhead and she was gone now.

'I see what you mean.'

'Exactly. Not really the right time to start over again at a different pub now. Chatting up someone takes time.'

'I guess you're right. Bill talked to that girl for more than an hour. An hour plus that I spent sitting here alone, not even a game to watch on the telly. So much for a "wingman".'

'I think you should reconsider that role in the future. Especially with him.'

'Yeah, I guess you're right. But don't get me wrong, deep down Bill is a good bloke.'

'Perhaps. But being a "good bloke" does not entitle him to leave you homeless for the evening.'

'Well, at least it won't be the whole evening.'

Scott doubted that, but if John wanted to believe it, that was not his problem.

The bartender called for last rounds, they had fifteen minutes.

'Ach,' John shook his head.

'So John, what is your rank?'

He noticed how John straightened himself up unconsciously, as if standing to attention. Scott was reminded of a bird puffing up his chest and smirked.

'Second Lieutenant,' he smiled.

Scot paused for a second, his eyes staring into space, then he blurted, 'Sandhurst.'

John blinked, 'How did you know that?'

'You are about to go on your first tour. Had you been a mere recruit it would have taken time and most likely several tours to get to that rank. No, you went straight to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst because you are interested in a military career. Graduates that survive the arduous course leave with a Second Lieutenant's rank.'

'How did you know? I mean, not many civilians know about Sandhurst.'

'I have an amazing amount of information stored in my brain, John,' he waved his hand and shrugged. 'I suspect you graduated with honours, judging by your preening.'

'I wasn't preening!' John protested.

Scott smirked, 'Yes you were.'

'No I wasn't!' John looked straight ahead, making a face. After a brief pause he chuckled, 'Actually, not to sound immodest, I did receive the Sword of Honour at the Sovereign's Parade. It's basically a "best in class" type of award.'

'Is it a figurative sword or a real one?'

'A real one! Beautifully made,' he smiled, eyes looking up as he envisioned it. Then his face changed and he looked down at the bar counter, lifting his pint. 'Now in storage at Bill's parents.'

'I've read that the training is very gruelling.'

'It was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life! There were days I didn't think I had it in me to finish it. I just gritted my teeth and tried to do my best at each challenge, each day, day after day. You are often cold, sleep deprived, hungry, wet, tired, miserable, a bit depressed even, and yet, you're asked to perform tasks that require mental acuity, decision making, knowing that the men are under your responsibility. That's how they identify those who can lead. Failure meant that they all could have died under your watch. It's hard to explain, but this is what motivates us to excel in leadership. That's why it means so much to me, that I got the award at the end.'

'How did your mate do?'

'Don't be fooled by his behaviour tonight. Bill is highly accomplished and I would trust him with my life. I'm sure he'll go very far.'

'I have a feeling you will do very well yourself, John.'

'God I hope so. I've always wanted this.'

Scott smiled, John had blushed slightly.

John paused, then turned his head towards his companion.

'You said you're an insomniac. Have you had that checked?'

'Nope. I actually don't need much sleep, so I prefer it that way.'

'Christ, how can you function?'

'Sleep is overrated.'

'Hey listen, Scott. I'm enjoying talking to you.'

'Same here,' Scott raised his glass.

'This is better than being all by myself staring at the walls. If you don't need much sleep, would you like to come along to my next stop?'

Scott paused and tilted his head. 'Actually, I am experiencing one of those nights where I don't feel sleepy.'

John smiled. 'So what will it be? Drink, coffee or bagel?'

'I'm usually not hungry. Coffee?'

'Sounds good, mate. Shall we go?' He stood up and pulled his wallet, leaving a few notes on the bar.

Scott paused and mulled over the word "mate" to himself. He liked the sound of that. When John turned back to him, Scott was smiling to himself as he too paid for his drink.

'After you, John.' He spread his arm.

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 **A/Note:** Please let me know what you think? If you think Sherlock is out of character, have some faith in the sociopath in him... ;)


	2. The café

**A/Note:** Wow, **Thilbo4Ever** and **KlaineDrarry21** do have faith! Thank you for the trust and favoriting this story right at the first chapter! And thank you for those of you who are following too. You made my day!

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 **2\. The café**

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'Is it within walking distance, this café?'

'Hm, it's a bit of a walk, but I'm used to it. If you're tired we can take a cab.'

'Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea of what they make us do in the army? A bit of a walk doesn't bother me. Plus, it's not like I'm in a hurry.'

'So, how long did your relationship last?'

'Two years.'

'That long? That was probably a year and a half too long.'

'Shut up, I liked her. I just didn't feel anything special when she suggested we get married. I mean, I've always thought that I'd be the one over the moon and down on my knee the day I asked a girl to marry me. But there was nothing.'

'As Bill and I pointed out to you.'

'Yeah, yeah. I know. Still, I still like her.'

They walked in companionable silence for a block. 'How about you Scott?'

'Hm? How about what?'

'Do you have someone back home, wherever that is?'

'My line of work is not really conducive to maintaining a relationship - I move about too much, never at my flat for long periods of time. Plus, I'm not an easy person to be with.'

'Well, if you tone down your - eh - observations, you seem like an easy person to talk to.'

'Really? That's not what most people say.'

'Well, whatever they say is wrong.'

'You are an unusual man, Second Lieutenant John.'

'I'll take that as a compliment,' he chuckled, bowing.

'As it was.'

John smiled and they walked in silence for a while. 'Plus, I imagine things are easy for you.'

' "Things?" '

'Oh, come on. That woman at the pub, she was a stunner! Too bad about the STD. But clearly, you don't go unnoticed by women. I told Bill she wasn't looking at me.'

Scott chuckled. 'She _could_ have been looking at you. You are far more muscular than I,' he glanced sideways.

John snorted, 'Yeah right.'

'Given the sheer number of sexual partners you've had to date-'

'Oh God. You can guess that too? Please don't.'

'- it's quite clear that _things_ are easy for _you_. And I never guess, John. I _observe_.'

He thought about it for a few seconds. 'I would say touché, but I'm not sure this is anything to be bragging about. I think it speaks more of my inability to keep a relationship more than a so called "success".'

'It's not a question of this being a good or a bad thing. It just is. It's a fact. You have one of those faces that people trust. There's a certain boyish openness to you that others identify as "likeable".'

'Ah, is that what it is?'

'Then after the initial physical attraction wanes you realise they bore you and you move on. Nothing wrong with that. Just fact.'

They walked in silence some more, as John pondered about it.

'You know what, Scott? We've only just met, but you just described exactly what happened to all my relationships. I had never thought about it this way, but you're right. It seems like no one has been able to keep me interested for long. Angela, my ex-girlfriend, was one of the longest, but even with her, things didn't work out. She was in all aspects the ideal one for me. Yet, after two years, it was just not the same. Sometimes I wonder if love really exists or if it's just an illusion.'

'I can't really comment on that, John. I myself am not sure it does exist.'

'So you've never felt it before either?'

'No. Love is not really my area. Ah, here we are. After you.'

It was a charming place, John thought. The café was small, with wooden floors, a band of mismatched chairs and armchairs, a fireplace, and the comforting smell of coffee permeating the air. At this time of the night, it wasn't overly crowded, there were seats available. Scott ordered it black with two sugars, John chose Chai with a scone.

'You shouldn't drink coffee at this time of the night, it won't help with your insomnia. Tea at least has less caffeine than coffee.'

'Trust me John, coffee does not affect me or my insomnia.'

They sat and talked, long after their cups were empty. Scott entertained John by reading the other customers' lives and affairs to him. John told him more about Sandhurst's training.

John stifled a yawn and checked his phone. 'Bloody hell, Bill! I'm so gonna kill him.'

'Chances are they fell asleep and you will never hear from him tonight.'

'Ugh,' John squeezed his eyes and rubbed his face. He contemplated just walking in and ignoring the other bed. It would probably be uncomfortable in the morning, but he could not risk reporting to the base with no sleep. He needed to be sharp for his first tour. _Afghanistan. Soon._

'John, if you're getting tired, my hotel is nearby and my room has a small sitting area. There's a pull out sofa and a stocked mini fridge, so I can offer you a drink and a place to crash if he never calls you.'

'Scott, I hate asking for favours, but I might take you up on that offer. I'm getting a little sleepy, to be honest.'

...

Scott and John were walking unhurriedly, hands in their pockets, chuckling.

'I can't believe you said that! That's brilliant!'

Scott opened his mouth to reply but the words never came. Someone came out of an alley and stood right before them, blocking their way.

'Well, well, well. If it isn't the freaky weirdo.'

Both men came to a halt and John looked up. This man was big, shaven headed and with a goatee. He was grinning with malice and his neck alone was as thick as John's thigh. The hair on his neck stood up. He immediately and discreetly pulled his hands out of his pockets.

Scott remained relaxed, hands still in his pockets. 'Armand,' he said nonchalantly, 'I thought you had left the country in a hurry.'

'And miss my chance of beating you to a pulp?'

Scott was about to reply, but John spoke up first, surprising him. All throughout the evening John had been very pleasant, open and friendly. This voice now was unlike what Scott had witnessed from the soldier so far. It was still polite and calm, yet grave and steely, with an underlying current of warning, suggesting a completely different man than the one he had been talking to for the past few hours. Goose pimples sprung on his back.

'Hey now,' John said, palms facing forward, 'I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding.'

'Oh, you think so? You're wrong. Thanks to this bastard here, I had to spend the last three months of my life in jail. Stay out of this, shortie, and you can walk away. This has nothing to do with you. Time for you to pay for it, freak,' he took a step forward.

He pulled his fist to punch Scott, but John was faster. Before Scott had even raised his fists to defend himself, John stepped into the thug's space, blocked the punch, delivered an upper cut on the man's chin and, hooking his foot behind the giant, brought him down to the ground.

Scott just stood there, hands still in his pockets, jaw hanging open, staring at the unconscious man at their feet.

'Oi!'

Both turned at the angry call, just to see three men stepping out of the alley. Two were holding knives and the third one, a jemmy.

Scott grabbed John's arm and yelled, 'Run!'

Scott would now and then say, 'this way' or 'turn here' as they twisted throughout the maize of streets and alleys. John fervently hoped Scott knew his way around so they wouldn't be caught trapped in a dead end.

'Here,' Scott yelled, grabbing his arm and jerking him around a corner. John suddenly felt himself pushed into a recessed niche against a door, as Scott pressed against his back, one hand flying to cover his mouth. A good thing too, otherwise John's nose would have hit the door and most likely be broken by the impact. This was a shallow recess in a very dark street.

Against the dark, John heard the running steps bypass them and felt the wind as they rushed by. He had only a few seconds to become aware of Scott's accelerated heartbeat against his back. Then John was yanked back the corner they had just rounded, in the opposite direction of their pursuers.

Scott ventured to look back, just in time to see a black sedan running past the three men and veering to block their path.

'Keep running, John. This way.'

John thanked his training for being able to run this much and still be able to keep up. He had many questions, but those would have to wait until they were out of danger. Scott kept changing directions and turning, until he grabbed John's arm again, pulling him.

'In here!'

They burst through a single glass door into a softly lit space and as soon as they rounded a corner, John ran straight into Scott's back.

'Oof!'

'Watch it, John,' Scott said calmly.

He huffed and puffed, leaning a hand against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

Scott turned his back against the wall and leaned back closing his eyes, also breathing hard. Both raised their eyes at the same time, about to ask if the other was okay and burst into laughter.

'Don't - make - me laugh. I - can't - breathe,' John puffed and laughed, copying Scott and leaning his back against the wall, tilting his head down.

'You're - the one - making - me laugh,' he spluttered, also gasping for air.

John looked around. He saw an ample room with puffy armchairs and a few employees standing around, all looking at them.

'Where - are we, - Scott?,' he whispered, still trying to catch his breath.

'In my hotel,' Scott smirked, his laughter dying down. 'We're safe.'

'Are you sure - they didn't see us? Coming in here?'

'Quite sure. They will be - rather occupied - for a while, - trust me. Let me get - my key - and I'll answer - all your questions - once we get - our breath back.'

John's breathing was more under control now. While Scott went to the front desk, he just waited where he was. He saw that some of the hotel employees were still looking at him, so he smiled and nodded, trying to look like a regular guest who belonged there.

As Scott waited for his key, he looked back at the unassuming soldier smiling politely at the other employees. That man had knocked out Armand! He had protected _him_. He felt a chill run down his back and shivered. His cheeks felt warm. His breathing now had nothing to do with how much he had just run.

He was puzzled.


	3. The crossing

**A/Note:** Thank you to **Amestrisay, sheifa dot akra** (the site does not like anything with a dot and keeps deleting your name, sorry), **FancyMandie,** **Yami1414, FuuuLord** and **alliwantisclairity** , for favoriting this story on my last chapter. It's good to see some familiar names and I'm very happy that you liked my stories enough to come back. Thanks for the messages, reviews and follows!

Enjoy a little zest. ;)

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 **3\. The crossing**

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'Wow! Your room is much nicer than ours.'

The room they entered was more like a small flat. To John's left there was a small round table with two chairs and a cupboard with a mini fridge, sink, coffee and tea maker. Straight ahead there was a sofa alongside the wall, an armchair below the window, a coffee table and a couple of side tables. The lamp next to the sofa was on, casting a soft light to the room. Facing the sofa there was a pair of curtained glass doors, which led to the bedroom area. To the far corner stood a flat screen tv on top of a low console.

Scott shrugged, 'My company is paying for it, might as well be comfortable.' He removed his jacket and threw it over the armchair. He undid his cuffs and started rolling up one of his sleeves. 'What would you like?' He opened the mini fridge and peeked. 'No beer, I'm afraid,' he said as he rolled up his other sleeve.

'Em. Right at this moment, I just need some water.' He blew the air out and took off his jacket too, looking around. The glass doors were open and he could see the bed with side tables and lamps. One of the lamps by the bed was also on, giving the whole room a welcoming and cozy feeling.

Scott grabbed two water bottles and, seeing John looking around he said, 'The loo is in the bedroom, to the left, if you need.'

'Em, I'm fine, thanks.' He looked away and draped his jacket over the armchair too.

Scott roamed his eyes quickly over John's muscular back and arms. He looked away just as John turned around, firing his questions. 'What was that all about? Who was that bloke? Why were the others armed?'

'Here John,' he handed the bottle and gestured towards the small sofa.

Once both had sat and drank half of their bottles, Scott replied.

'He's just someone who didn't - care - for my observations. I might have, eh, told the police about what they had just done and ended up having to testify in court about their breaking and entering.'

John burst out laughing. ' _Might_ have told the police? Brilliant!'

He shrugged, 'The court dismissed my testimony because I hadn't _actually_ witnessed the breaking and entering itself. Idiots! But when the police had interrogated them using my information the thugs had confessed. So in the end, the criminals did themselves in. I just got them arrested. The chances of seeing them again - in London, of all places - were insignificant. Apparently, I miscalculated.'

'Clearly,' John wiped his eye, still chuckling.

Scott smiled, then he tilted his head and frowned. 'Why did you do that? It really had nothing to do with you, you could have walked away. And despite your obvious proficiency in self defence, he could still have hurt you.'

'Well, I had surprise on my side and he wasn't armed,' he shrugged. 'I knew I could take him down. What I didn't see coming were his three mates, angry and armed.'

'Clearly.'

Both smiled.

Scott stood up, 'Well John, thank you for not letting him break my teeth; they are very useful and I'm quite fond of them. You deserve a drink and you have certainly earned your stay here tonight. This is the least I can do for you.' He opened the mini fridge again, extending his palm to indicate its contents with a flourish. It was stocked with miniature bottles. 'What would you like, dear Sir?'

'Um, I really don't like gin all that much. The whisky? We can share if you like, I don't need the whole bottle.'

Scott poured the whisky into two glasses and returned to the sofa, handing John his drink. Both sipped in comfortable silence.

'Scott, I can't thank you enough. You've been a life saver tonight. I'm enjoying this.'

' _You_ 've been a life saver, John.' Scott sipped, staring into his drink and frowned. 'You're enjoying this? Even with four thugs attacking us?'

'Well, nobody got hurt - except for Armand. And we're here now, safe, having a drink.' He smiled, 'I'm not bored anymore,' he wiggled his eyebrows.

Scott chuckled and shook his head. 'Just like you, I'm also not bored anymore. It has been a fun evening.'

'Despite being chased by three armed thugs,' John waved a finger.

'John, I have a feeling you will do really well in the Army. You seem to thrive in the face of danger. I have to say, I'm impressed with your skills.'

He snorted, 'Hey, they don't just make us march and run in the army, you know? We also learn a thing or two about one on one combat.'

'And how.'

John preened and Scott smiled at his vanity. He couldn't fault him for it though. And he certainly didn't mind how his pecs strained the t-shirt as he straightened himself.

'We should be careful tomorrow,' John said. 'This hotel is not too far from where they last saw us.'

'Don't worry, John. I don't believe they will be around tomorrow.'

'Still, watch your back, will you?'

He nodded.

John waved his glass, 'I was impressed at how well you knew your way around. I was lost after the fourth turn.'

'I have an eidetic memory. I have a clear map of the city in my head.'

'That's amazing! I was actually getting worried that we'd run into a dead end and be trapped.'

'Never. My map is very accurate and up to date.'

'You mean you knew about that very specific recessed door?' John tried to brush off the memory of Scott's body against his. He remembered feeling the racing heartbeat against his back. And looking back now, Scott's hand silencing and protecting him made him feel a wave or warmth inside.

'Of course. I usually stay in this area whenever I'm in London, so I'm very familiar with its nooks and crannies. And its malfunctioning streetlights.'

'Wow. I am truly impressed.'

'To be honest John, I've never talked this much with someone else before. Usually I make people uncomfortable, nervous or angry with my reading of them. You were the first one to actually get past that and be impressed.'

'Because it _is_ impressive.'

'You are different. You are a puzzle, John.'

'I know. I can't figure myself out either,' he chuckled.

'I have to say, you surprised me. You are far more interesting than I initially thought.'

John scrunched up his face and lifted an eyebrow. 'Em, thanks? I guess. Mm, this is actually very good,' he indicated the glass. 'I don't drink much, but this is smooth. I'll have to remember the brand.'

'Yes, the quality does make a difference. I thought it might help you unwind a bit.'

'Usually I just get sleepy if I drink. And a bit dizzy if I go too fast.'

'That's what most people would call "drunk".'

John chuckled, 'Yeah. I just don't see why people do it. The price you pay on the following day is just not worth it. Plus, I see what it does to -,' he cut himself off, embarrassed.

'Your alcoholic brother?'

John's eyebrows shot up. 'Sister.'

'Always something,' he tutted to himself.

'Huh? How did you know?'

'Your phone. Not yours, obviously, a hand me down. The inscription: an expensive gift from a now former but serious relationship - wife. Giving this expensive phone away? Divorce. Why divorce? The charging port was scuffed by unsteady hands plugging it in every time: alcoholic.'

John stared, open mouthed.

'That was amazing!'

Scott shrugged, 'Meretricious. You disapprove of her drinking, that's why you weren't seeing her tonight. That's why you make a distinction between drinking and having a drink. And I'm glad you're having a drink with me.'

'Me too. This is nice. Thanks again for inviting me in.'

He waved a hand, 'Don't mention it.'

Scott turned and stared intently, 'Your eyes have an unusual dark colour - I'm sure you are aware of it.'

'It depends on the light, that's all,' he looked away. 'Sometimes it's washed out, sometimes it looks darker. Yours have an interesting mix of colours too.'

Scott gave a shy smile and placed his arm on the back of the sofa, leaning his face on his fist. 'John, I have a confession to make.'

'Mm?'

He lowered his eyes and took a deep breath. 'I - find you very attractive.'

John stared, surprised. Then he closed his eyes, 'Oh! That's why you turned the redhead down.'

'No, I turned her down because not only she had a sexually transmitted disease, but mainly because she was boring.'

'How could you tell she was boring? You barely even talked to her.'

'I had already evaluated her. Too predictable, too boring. Trust me, you are far more interesting than her. You are a challenge, in more ways than one.'

'You mean...' His forehead moved as he understood. 'Then all this time, this whole evening?'

'I was chatting _you_ up, yes.'

'God, am I stupid,' he closed his eyes. When he opened them up again, clearly self conscious, he shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.

'Um, I mean, listen-'

'I know, you're straight. Don't worry, I don't want to make you uncomfortable with unwanted advances. Talking to you has been so enjoyable that even if all we do is chat is enough for me.'

'Good. That's fine,' he exhaled, relieved.

'However.' He moved slightly closer and John shifted a bit away, hitting the armrest. 'I also know that you have been thinking about trying it with men.'

'Oh, God.'

'I saw you looking at me at the pub. You think I'm attractive. I can also tell you that I'm very skilled.' He reached out and gently touched John's nape with one finger, making goose pimples spread all over his neck and back. John turned his face away, jaw clenching, as expected. But also, as expected, he didn't get up to leave either. He was rigid and breathing hard. Oh, how he liked the sight of John's pecs straining and sinking against the t-shirt.

John didn't know where to look. Once he turned away, his eyes stumbled on the bed, straight ahead. It just stood there as a threat, an accusation, an invitation, an obscene beckoning symbol. It loomed heavily, screaming of a possibility he had never even considered before. He was sweating again, his face was burning.

Scott smiled and whispered, getting closer and closer slowly, one centimetre at a time, licking his lower lip.

'You don't need to kiss me or touch me if you don't want to, but I can give you more pleasure than you've ever had with any woman. I'm _that_ good.' He rubbed his finger lightly on John's nape again and this time he was rewarded with the expected response. John's eyes closed, shivering at the feeling. Scott murmured, now close to his ear.

'It's been a while for you...'

...

Perhaps it was the whisky. Perhaps it was the dirty whispers that followed in that seductive voice, puffing in his ear. But John had been thinking lately if his problem with women was the fact that they were women. Being in the Army, a predominantly male environment, had him wondering for a while. Could that be the reason why he had always felt completely at home, at ease, in what was such an unforgiving and harsh world? Yet, it was also a predominantly straight environment, so he kept his thoughts to himself. Not even Bill knew about this. He wasn't gay, he knew that much. But he had found himself looking around, now and then waking up from the odd dream puzzled and excited. He had thought Scott was attractive, but hadn't seriously considered doing anything. That is, up until now.

The ticklish whispering in his ear, the finger caressing his nape, and now, a hand on his chest. The hand wasn't moving, just a nice warm pressure, as if to steady him. It had quite the opposite effect, though. All these things compounded left him dizzy, taking his breath away. Obscene images popped inside his eyelids with Scott's words and voice, setting his whole body on fire and making his blood rise. Scott unhurriedly rubbed the tip of his nose on John's earlobe, a faint ghost of a touch that made the hairs on his arms stand up.

...

John had sweated with their run, but instead of being an unpleasant smell, somehow it enhanced the pull Scott felt. In fact, John smelled deliciously. _How was that possible? Some personal pheromone?_ He smelled of outdoor exercise, adventure and physical power. John's fight came back to mind. He had _defended_ him. His desire for the soldier was unlike anything else he had ever experienced before. Seeing no objections so far, Scott let out a breathy sigh and lightly touched his lips to John's neck, just moving them languidly from side to side, inhaling his scent.

John took a sharp intake of breath at the touch, his head tilting as if unsure whether to pull away or give access.

Scott's hand on John's chest was no tame and innocent gesture. He was monitoring the heart rate, taking his time between each more daring move, gauging his reactions. This required patience and timing.

He had, of course, been right in hand picking John from the crowd. Most women and gay men were always too easy of a target for him, especially gay men. Young and lusty, they didn't object to his advances; they too, were very keen on quickly getting to bed. But someone like John was always a fun challenge. Someone who had been curious, but not daring enough to pursue it. Most of the times, the chatting up was actually tedious and predictable. But the "persuasion" part was always fun.

This time though, it was different. John was truly different and unusual. He was funny, interesting and unpredictable. The talking part had ben enjoyable, a first for him.

He had noticed John at the pub. How could he not? That t-shirt did wonders in advertising John's torso and the simplicity of his attire only enhanced his sex appeal. The nice thing about soldiers was that they were always in great shape. There was something inherently attractive about them. Something about their physical power, obvious masculinity and implied stamina. Plus, the fact that John was a soldier also played into a certain "fascination" he had. Scott always thought the dog tags dangling against their naked muscular torsos was truly sexy.

He had studied how John would look at some of the women at the pub, then rub his watch and look upset in general, broadcasting his orientation as well as the recent break up and his state of mind. But he would occasionally furtively look at other men too. Then, through the mirror behind the bar, he saw that John had also noticed him. Thinking Scott was unaware of his stare, he gave him a once over, quickly looking back to his pint, seemingly embarrassed at his own daring and rubbing his watch.

That was all he needed to know. He had his target for tonight. He just waited for a stool next to him to vacate. Then he made John think he was the one coming up with the idea to hang out. That never failed.

Usually he preferred to top, but with men that thought of themselves as straight things were unpredictable and could go either way. There was no doubt in his mind that John would cave in, but more of how far he would go. Whichever way they ended up, he knew it would be fine with him.

He couldn't resist, he lowered his hand to feel the rock solid abs. The muscles tensed under his touch, feeling even harder, sending shivers to his spine in anticipation. _So strong._ He too, was breathing hard now, imagining those muscles overpowering him, just as he had overpowered Armand. He slid his hand from side to side, then venturing out to the waist and back to centre. Resting his lips on John's neck he sighed, just breathing in his delicious smell. He pressed a gentle and chaste kiss and waited, but there were no protests or pulling away. Then he probed lightly with his tongue, tasting the salt on his skin.

With stunning and alarming speed, John settled his drink on the side table, grabbed him by the arms and firmly pushed him away. Scott only had a second to be surprised at his first mistake and rejection in a long time, when John crashed his lips on his, in a hard and dirty whisky flavoured kiss.

...

He was stunned.

.

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 **A/Note:** Which one was stunned, you may ask? I couldn't decide, I think both were. So let's leave it at that. I hope you liked this chapter. And please review?


	4. The puzzle

**A/Note:** Wow. I'm speechless seeing the response so far. Thanks **IamSHERlocked4ever, staralinga, Lalidra102, tmrzygmunt, Jolie-marie** for favoriting, for the reviews and follows. I can't express how rewarding this is. :D

As for today's chapter... sorry.

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 **4\. The puzzle**

.

Scott was just finishing getting dressed. He paused and stared into space.

The bedside light was still on, as they had quickly fallen asleep afterwards, both sweaty and exhausted. That was unusual. Most of the times, he'd get drowsy afterwards, but remained alert so he could leave once his conquests were asleep. Luckily he woke up a couple of hours later.

He looked over his shoulder. John was asleep, dog tags jumbled on his collarbone, sheets down to his waist. He had one hand resting between his pecs and navel, his face was turned to the side towards the other hand, still clad with his watch, palm facing up. As expected, his body was glorious.

He was stunned; not only this had been the best shag of his entire life, but also, for the first time, he had experienced an orgasm without direct stimulation. Hadn't he known better, the logical conclusion would be that John had experience with men after all. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing and was deliberate and precise in his moves. Not even experienced gay men had ever been this successful with him. It had taken him by surprise, and the intensity of his earth shattering orgasm left him drained, exhausted and certainly seriously dehydrated judging by the sheer amount of sweat that had poured out of him.

He looked at the bed, with an inviting, warm and naked John on it and was tempted to stay.

But he knew better. With men who slept with another man for the first time it always made for unpredictable reactions once they woke up. Most of the times there was regret; they didn't want to be reminded of their "slip" and just wanted to get rid of him. Inevitably, there were denials and accusations, "I was drunk, you must have drugged me, hypnotised me, you took advantage of me, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera."

He sighed, stood up and left, without looking back.

 _John Watson_ , he repeated inside his head. He had the dog tags memorised. He would never see him again.

...

When John woke up the following morning, he squinted at the bedside table lamp's glare. They had forgotten the lights on last night. _Last night._ He jerked his head around, but the bed was empty. He felt it, and the sheets were cold. Raising his head he scanned the room and listened, but he was alone. He looked around again. _No note._ He reached for his jeans on the floor and checked his phone. Nothing had been added to the contacts list, but there were a couple of texts from Bill. He lay back and rubbed his face.

 _So that was that._

Truth be told, he was relieved for not having to face Scott this morning.

Yet, it still stung. No "good morning", "I had a good time", nothing.

To Scott he was just a one night stand. Just an easy shag after all, easily discarded and forgotten.

...

He had been staring into space. After a thorough shower he put on a dressing gown and carefully lowered himself onto his armchair, pulling up his legs and hugging them. He still felt raw and naked. His muscles had a satisfying ache, reminding him of the evening and of John.

He only sought sex when he was extremely bored, with nothing else to occupy his mind. So he tried to make it more challenging and interesting each time, turning it into a hunting sport of sorts. But this time had been different. He thought about all the last hours he had spent with Second Lieutenant John Watson, from first to last sight. _The last sight._ He did not want to forget or delete it. This man was different.

He tried to tell himself it was over; tomorrow soldier O POS 28740774 WATSON, J CE, would be on his way to Afghanistan. This had been John's first and only time with a man, and most likely he would be unwilling to see him again.

Yet. He couldn't help but feeling a nagging sense of loss. John had been nice, fun, appreciative of his skills, even before they got to the hotel. There was a sense of "fitting into an old shoe" between them as they talked. He wished they had had more time together, that they had met earlier, sometime before his leaving for Afghanistan.

He had used all his resources, skills and talent on John. Usually he would only need to spend twenty to thirty per cent of his arsenal to turn his targets into a quivering mess, eager for him. The fleeting power he had over them during those times was the reward for his efforts, especially the suffering through the courtship part. He was always able to taylor his persona and pick the skills required to fit the chosen target.

The simple act of throwing his suit jacket over the armchair was no accident, but a calculated move. It made sure John would logically do the same, leaving only the sofa for them to sit. And once sitting, they had a suggestive view of the bed. That's why he favoured this hotel, the set up was just perfect.

This time he had started with his acting skills, pretending to be the kind of person who actually exchanged small talk in a pub and didn't find it boring. Except he hadn't been bored. At the hotel, he aimed to appear non-threatening and shy once they settled on the sofa. But for every small victory in the path of winning John over, something compelled him to go beyond his own standards, to never stop, to never let it drop. Something about him, the way he responded and smelled and breathed. Every little sound, every small gasp he extracted from John were rewarding in a different way.

This wasn't about power over him. Somehow _he_ was the one entranced, trying harder and harder to reproduce the same fleeting results again and again. And yet, in the end he was the one reduced to a quivering mess, eager for _him_. He had never cared much for foreplay, he only spent enough time on it to get his prey compliant. But this time he had lost track of how much time they had spent on that sofa. To his surprise, he didn't mind that. By the time they finally made it to bed he was almost out of his mind with desire. John had surprised him again-

'By God, what have you done?'

He looked up to find his older brother evaluating him.

He wrinkled his nose, 'What are you doing here?'

'It was brought to my attention that you've been engaging in dangerous behaviour again. When are you going to stop risking your health and your life like this?'

'I don't risk my health or my life. Go away,' he stood up and faced the window, a feeble attempt to hide his thoughts from his brother.

'The mere use of prophylactics does not equal safety when you pick up strangers in pubs. It would be very much like you to attract, no - choose - dangerous or violent individuals. Murderers, even. Or, conveniently enough, drug suppliers.'

'I know very well what I'm doing and who I'm doing,' he spat, hoping to offend his brothers' sense of propriety enough so he would leave.

'But something turned out unexpectedly this time. It's written all over you.'

'It's nothing.'

'What has he done to you?'

'What do you think?' He whirled around, eyes flashing. Then he smirked. 'Do you really need me spell it out for you?'

His brother rolled his eyes and sighed. Then he approached slowly. He spoke softly this time.

'Do you need medical assistance?'

He frowned, 'No, I'm perfectly fine,' and turned away. 'Leave me alone.'

'You are not perfectly fine. Has he hurt you?'

'No!' He smiled and turned around. 'Much the opposite. You want to know what he has done to me? I'll tell you then...'

He started his account being as crass and as graphic as possible.

'Oh please. There is nothing you can say to shock me. I was the one who cleaned up the mess after your last disaster, remember?'

'Oh, but this was just the foreplay! The sofa offered many possibilities...'

His older brother finally had enough. 'Oh shut up, you are merely avoiding the real subject.'

'Am I?'

'Yes. Something else happened. Something that left you rattled. No, puzzled,' he raised an eyebrow.

He turned towards the window, but his older brother continued.

'You've been going over everything. What could that be? You, puzzled?'

'Go back to your wars and power schemes. What I do is my business. My life.'

'Life? Keep up this destructive behaviour and it may end sooner rather than later, dear brother.'

'At least I won't be bored. This is tedious. Leave.'

 _Childish brat! This is pointless; the same argument over and over again._ But out loud he said, 'Very well.' He turned around and walked towards the door. 'I'll be watching you, little brother,' he called over his shoulder.

Scott heard the footsteps going towards the staircase and turned sharply. He ran to the top landing and shouted:

'And don't you dare do anything!'

...

After Bill's unbearable teasing about the redheaded woman, John couldn't take it anymore and told him the truth, in general lines. Bill was stunned into silence for a while, his mouth hanging open.

'You?'

'Yeah. Me.'

'Man!'

They sat in silence some more.

'Listen Bill, if I make you uncomfortable-'

'John, shut up. You know my brother is gay, I'm not uncomfortable around you. Just- surprised.'

'Yeah. Me too.'

'Damn!'

They quieted again.

John started regretting telling him. 'Bill, erm, would you- would please keep this just between us?'

'Of course, mate, of course. Just... fuck!' Bill wiped his forehead. 'I never...'

'Yeah.'

They were quiet for a while, each mulling over their thoughts.

'So. Are you seeing him again? Did you get his number?'

'No.' He leaned back on the chair, crossing his arms. 'Nope, I'll probably never see him again. Ever.'

'Ah.' _Good._

 _Bastard._

.

* * *

 **A/Notes:** See? Not so out of character after all...


	5. The black car

**A/Notes:** Hope I'm not boring you, but thanks **NancyGuti, CloverKitten06, Quietly mischievous, The Cold East Wind** and **arabrabM** for favoriting this story in such a "disappointing" chapter. ;)

And thanks **CloverKitten06** for reading my other stories and leaving a review for my 5+1. Also thanks **arabrabM** for reading and favoriting two of my other stories too. I'm so happy all of you liked them.

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 **5\. The black car**

.

 _"Second Lieutenant Watson please report to Captain Sholto's office."_

'Uh-oh. What did you do, John?'

'Shut up, Bill.' John shoved a few more forkfuls into his mouth as he got up from the table.

...

John straightened up his uniform. Being called to Captain Sholto's office was a bit unerving and intimidating. He took a deep breath before knocking.

'Second Lieutenant Watson reporting, Sir!'

'At ease, Second Lieutenant.'

'You wanted to see me, Sir?'

'No. Someone else does. I don't know who that is either. All I know is that this is most irregular and unprecedented. I wonder...'

'Sir?'

'Who do yo know? Who are you? These must be important people. The orders came from above.'

'I - don't know, Sir. I'm just a regular bloke. I don't understand. Sir.'

'Neither do I. Well, someone wants to talk to you. Whoever that is, is waiting for you in that black car outside. Report back to me once you're done. Dismissed.'

'Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.' He saluted and left.

...

As he approached the car, a driver in a suit opened the door for him. He looked at the man, but didn't recognise him either.

'Please do come in, Second Lieutenant.' The voice coming from the car was a bit pompous and condescending, but that was definitely not said as an order. _Not military personnel, then_. He got in and the driver closed the door behind him. There was a black glass partition between the back of the car and the driver. Inside, there was a very formally dressed man in an expensive looking suit.

'I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your dinner, Second Lieutenant. Although I would venture to say that it's not a terrible loss. If you haven't had enough to eat I'll leave instructions for them to provide food for you once we're done.'

That was unexpected. He considered it. 'Thank you sir, but that won't be necessary.'

The car started moving.

'Very well.'

He pulled up a manila folder and opened it. John could see there was a picture of himself in uniform printed on the top left of a form with many divided sections and text. It had a paper clip attaching it to several other sheets of typed paper. The man flipped through the stack lazily, as if to show him there was a lot about him in there. He almost snorted, there wasn't _that_ much about him to be known.

The man finally spoke, 'I see in your files you've had quite an impressive career so far. I also see that you already had a good career prospect prior to enlisting. I'm curious. What made you choose the army?'

'Sir, with all due respect, what is this about?'

'Ah, yes. Well, consider this an informal "job interview".'

 _Job interview? Is that how they recruit special forces or something?_

'For which position, Sir?'

'Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Please just answer a few questions. What made you choose the army?'

'I've always wanted to be a soldier. That's all.'

'A military career?'

'Yes.' He dropped the "sir", until he knew who this pompous man was.

'I see. The Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. Sword of Honour at the Sovereign's Parade. Impressive.' He flipped a page. 'Looking into your studies at University, most likely you had and have access to drugs.'

'Prescription drugs? Yes, of course.'

'Do you ever partake of them yourself?'

'If you mean the occasional paracetamol or antihistamine, yes.'

'And as for the - recreational - kind?'

John pulled his head back, drawing himself up. 'I have taken an oath, sir. One that I did not make lightly. Certainly not for the mere access to drugs.'

The man stared at him for a while. 'Of course.' He looked into the folder again, 'I see your personal life has been a little... busy, I should say.'

'Sir?'

'You had a long term relationship up until recently, it seems.'

John waited, not sure why Angela was being mentioned.

'A recent break up, just on the eve of your first tour of duty. It must have been devastating.'

'Learning of my upcoming tour made us re-think our relationship. We split.'

'Ah, I see. Certainly you must be going through some emotional strain.'

John wondered if this had to do with his capabilities as an officer. God knows they were tested at Sandhurst for their ability to cope with the physical and emotional strain, separating those who were more suitable for command and leadership from the regular soldiers. Him being top of his class must have caught someone's attention. He had to make it clear he was more than capable of coping with it.

'Sir, my personal life does not interfere with my work.'

'Perhaps not. But perhaps it does interfere with your judgement regarding the company you keep?'

The man pulled a photo from underneath the stack of papers. John felt a chill run up his spine. He tightened his jaw to contain his surprise. It was clearly taken from quite a distance with professional lenses for such a close up shot. It was a photo of Scott and himself, both smiling as they talked to each other, walking towards the coffee shop.

'What do you know about this man?'

The implications were staggering. Not only Scott must be _someone_ , but someone important enough to require surveillance. And the fact that this man came to him... There was no point in denying he knew Scott.

'Not much. I've only met him yesterday. He said he was a pharmaceutical sales rep, in London for business.'

'It came to my knowledge that you've had the - _pleasure_ \- of - _knowing_ him - quite well.'

He really didn't like this bastard's tone. He'd love to punch him for that, but he chose to remain silent rather than loosing his temper. Were they followed all the way to the hotel? Was the hotel room bugged? How much more had they photographed? Whoever _they_ were, they all knew something as personal as that. He felt naked and very exposed.

'Would you see him again, given the chance? There are no right or wrong answers, please just state the truth.'

'Who is he? Is he a spy or something?'

'No, nothing so dramatic.'

'Is he dangerous?'

'Very. But nothing illegal, I should add. Well- never mind,' he smiled to himself. 'He's just a person of interest. Would you see him again?'

'Most likely no. He showed no interest in that regard.'

'I see. This was a very unique - episode - in your history.'

John took a deep breath, could this man damage his career with this?

'Sir, who are you? Why are you here? Who is this man?'

'I'm here because I need answers, soldier. Why him?'

'I too, need answers before I say anything else. _Sir_.'

'Understandable - _Second Lieutenant_. But for the moment this is a "need-to-know" basis meeting. Why him?' And this time his question assumed a threatening tone.

John looked at him hard, trying to make a decision on how to handle this. Pride wouldn't help him if this man could potentially ruin his career. Given all this secrecy, he must be someone powerful enough to be able to do it.

'He was funny. Witty. Charming. Fascinating. Also, a bastard. Rude, blunt, uncaring.'

To his surprise, the man in front of him smirked. 'That's an accurate description. Did anything - unusual - happen last night?'

John stared incredulous, his mouth opening.

'I don't mean intimate details, Second Lieutenant. Has anything out of the ordinary happened?'

Then he remembered, 'Well, we were stopped by a man that clearly intended to beat him up. I knocked him out, but then three more thugs with knives showed up. We ran until we lost them.'

'I see.' He evaluated John for a few seconds.

'You already knew this, didn't you?'

The man didn't answer. Instead he repeated, 'Anything else?'

'Like what?'

'If I knew I wouldn't be asking you.'

John had to swallow a lot before answering. _Aside from the fact that he was a man?_ 'No.'

The man stared at him, as if reading his mind. Then his expression softened again.

'My apologies, Second Lieutenant. These questions were not meant to make you uncomfortable. Your cooperation is appreciated. If you should see him again, I would like to make you an offer.'

'Sir?'

'Information. Nothing you should feel uncomfortable to report. Nothing of the intimate kind, obviously.'

'Sir, I seriously doubt I will ever see him again.'

'You do? Perhaps you are right. But if you do see him in the future, expect to see me again. I would compensate you for your troubles, obviously.'

'Sir, if he is dangerous to the country, I don't need compensation to go to the authorities.'

'There will be no need to go to the authorities if he does contact you. He's not a criminal, I assure you.'

'My answer is no. Sir.'

'I haven't discussed the details yet.'

'My answer is still no.'

The man stared at him, in a clear evaluation and calculation. 'Very well. We will drive you back now.' He pressed a button, then continued, 'Are you sure you don't want to continue with your dinner?'

'I'm sure.'

'Then I'll leave you be. For now. We might meet again in the future, Second Lieutenant. Until then, if you do see him, don't tell him we've met. Trust me.'

 _Like hell I'll trust you._

The man raised an eyebrow, as if he had heard him. 'Second Lieutenant, believe me when I say it will be best not to mention this meeting to him. Eventually - if you do see him again -, you and I will meet formally and openly. Ah, and before I forget, tell Captain Sholto you have orders not to speak about the contents of our meeting. Because you do. Not from me, obviously. From above.'

'Yes. Sir.'

'And that includes your mates and everyone else you come in contact with.'

 _Of course._ 'Yes, sir.'


	6. Getting on with life

**A/Notes:** Ok, **shiefa dot akra** had jokingly asked me if my chapters could be longer. In the interest of story flow, while editing tonight I ended up combining three chapters into two. So in a sense, this chapter is a bit longer than the last two. LOL. The good and the bad news is that this story now has only nine chapters.

These two chapters were the ones that gave me trouble. Pease let me know how I did.

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 **6\. Getting on with life**

.

'Hi,' the young man said. 'Can I buy you a drink?'

'Boring.'

'Excuse me?'

'You are boring. Go away.'

...

'Hey, Corporal.'

'Hey, Second Lieutenant.'

'Mind if I join you?'

'Not at all.'

'Can I buy you a drink?'

She smiled at him, 'You certainly can. I'm Christine.'

'John. Have you been at Camp for long?'

'Three months so far. Hope to be on leave in a couple of months. You?'

'Just got here.'

'I would usually say "welcome aboard", but somehow that doesn't seem appropriate here.'

He chuckled.

...

'Hi handsome. Would you buy me a drink?

'Married. No, thank you.'

The woman looked at him astonished. 'You're married?'

'No, _you_ are.'

She huffed and turned away, fighting the urge to slap him.

...

'Ah!'

'Shana, you are beautiful.'

'You're not - ah! - so bad - ah - yourself - ah - John!'

...

 _Ah, another bi-curious man?_

'Hello.'

The man looked at him and dropped his drink.

He sighed, turned around and left the pub. _No one is quite the same._

...

'When does your shift end, Jen?'

'In one hour. Why?'

'Would you like to have dinner with me?'

'You and one hundred and fifty other fellow soldiers? Sure.'

He laughed. 'I'm "buying".'

'Oh, so generous of you, John,' she giggled.

...

He looked at the syringe in his hand. Sex was no longer a fun hunting sport. It had been four months since O POS 28740774 WATSON, J CE. Four months of not finding one single person that could stir his appetite. The whole world was stupid and boring! There was absolutely nothing going on right now. This was not life, but merely existing in this waiting void. Without any other stimuli this empty wait was unbearable. This syringe's content was the only thing that would calm his brain right now.

...

John woke up with a start. He had a dream with Scott in it. In it they were just talking, laughing, walking. He still remembered his eyes and his smile. _Such piercing eyes that saw everything._

He then thought of how Scott had approached him on the sofa, lightly touching his neck, then slowly inching into his personal space. That had been so exciting and seductive.

He turned in bed. He needed to stop thinking about him.

The only certainty was that Angela was definitely in the past now. It had been the right thing to do, for both of them, after all.

...

'I'm not going!'

He had been able to keep it hidden for the past two months, but was finally caught.

'Oh yes you are. You won't be allowed to do your work until I know you're clean, dear brother. That should set your goals straight and keep you motivated into getting healthy.'

'You can't make me!'

'You're right, I can't. That's why I brought my agents.'

...

'John?'

'Hey Bill.'

'How are you doing?'

'Fine.'

'Are you sure?'

John frowned.

'Yes, why?'

'I know you'll get a medal for it, but you ran straight into enemy fire yesterday. I thought you were nearly suicidal.'

'That soldier needed help. He was injured, I pulled him to safety.'

'There were bullets flying all around, some hit very close to you.' He shook his head. 'Listen John, many of the lads here end up with depression, some try to kill themselves. I just want to make sure you are okay.'

'Thanks Bill. But I am fine. I was just doing my job.'

...

As much as he hated the rehab centre he knew he had no choice. He was in a special section, where the patients were deemed a risk to themselves and/or to others, so it felt more like a prison than anything else. All his attempts to escape had been thwarted. His actions had only spurred punishments ("loss of privileges" they said), so his phone and internet access had been taken away from him. There was nothing but boredom left. To escape this sea of nothingness and boredom his only choice was to visit his mind palace. And stay there.

He discovered that his mind palace was also a very convenient place to create fantasies that felt almost real.

...

'Sir, you told us to inform you if there were any changes with the patient.'

'Yes? Has something happened?'

'Em, yes. There has been a, ahem, he has been through a, eh, very - prolonged - state of - um - priapism today. After two hours we called in a specialist to examine him, but there are no visible issues that could explain it. While this uh, - state - lasted he had been mostly immobile, lying in bed. He never even touched himself.'

'Have you checked for smuggled drugs?'

'Yes, we have - although it's impossible for anyone to give him anything illicitly, given the surveillance. His blood work came back normal. This is mainly a report to keep you informed.'

'Very well. Thank you, Doctor.'

...

'Sir? Em, this is just a call to let you know it has happened again.'

...

John saluted.

'At ease, Second Lieutenant. Watson, we've known each other for quite some time now.'

'Yes, Sir.'

'I usually don't pry on my men's private lives, but I saw you volunteered to stay. You know you are entitled to go on leave.'

'Yes, Captain.'

'In fact, you are overdue for a leave. You can't possibly want to spend Christmas here. I think very highly of your work. It would be a terrible loss for us if you ended up having a nervous breakdown. Everybody needs a break. Is everything all right?'

'Yes, Sir. I know I'm up for leave. But-' he sighed, looking down briefly. 'My sister and I don't really get along. I have no other family to visit and I'm currently not in a relationship. I'd rather let the other lads have an opportunity to visit their loved ones.'

'Very well.'

...

'Sir?'

He sighed.

'How long this time?'

'Over six hours.'

'Doctor, I really appreciate your calls. But knowing my brother, he simply found a way to keep himself entertained. I believe this is how he'll spend his time at the centre until he's released. Call me if there are any other changes. And do keep checking his blood work, just in case.'

'Yes, sir.'

...

'It's been two months! My body is clean, but my mind is rotting. Let me out!'

His brother stared at him for a few seconds, evaluating the pros and cons of letting him leave the centre.

'I want you to know that if you relapse, I'll make sure they know. You won't get any more work if you take any drugs again, understood?'

He loathed his brother. But he knew he had not choice but to comply. He took a deep calming breath, closing his eyes. He only opened his eyes again when he felt ready to reply in a not-so-angry voice.

'Understood.'

...

'To Christmas.'

John raised his glass. Captain Sholto had invited him to his office for a drink before the Christmas supper with the others. He was sitting stiffly on the hard small sofa. He liked Captain Sholto but he still felt a bit intimidated by the man.

'Merry Christmas, Sir.'

'Since it's Christmas, please do me a favour. Call me by my name when we're not in an official capacity.'

'Yes, Si- James.'

'Like you, I also have no family left back at home. To hear my own name again is a treat. It seems like the higher the rank the lonelier it gets.'

'I know what you mean. You can call me John. I still have friends here that call me by my first name, but it seems like the numbers have dwindled considerably in this past year here.'

'Yes. Too many men. That's the hardest thing about being in command. I am responsible for my men and I want all of them to go home in one piece. But such things are beyond my control.' He sipped his drink. 'Ach, pay no attention to my ramblings. It's Christmas Eve, time for hope and happiness. If anything, to celebrate that we're still alive.'

...

Scott grinned. He was back. As he ran he felt vibrantly alive, this is what he lived for. This challenge, this chase, this adrenaline rush. To be right, to see things that nobody else did, to understand with such clarity what had happened and how. To be able to foresee and anticipate. To go after the beasts that hunted and preyed on others, so now they were his prey. His heart rate accelerated as he leapt over the gap between the roofs of two buildings.

He felt as if he were the ultimate predator.

...

John saluted.

'At ease, John. This is not an official capacity.'

'What's going on, James?'

'I just needed someone to talk to today.'

'The suicide bomber?'

'Yes. Four men killed.'

John placed a hand on James shoulder.

'Not your fault, James.'

...

He was restless. He had just finished his work and had crashed on his bed, sleeping for ten hours straight. Now that he was awake there was nothing to do - again. His latest experiment was finished, he had already played his violin, had smoked, had done research online. He sighed staring at his computer screen.

He cast his mind back to the time he had spent in rehab, when he really had nothing to occupy his brain. He typed John Watson into the search engine.

He was pleasantly surprised. There was a three-month old article about soldiers who had received medals. Scrolling down there were short sentences describing what each individual had done, with a photo. He scrolled faster, searching, his heart pumping. There he was. Second Lieutenant John Watson.

That was a good picture of him. Just as he remembered John. The boyish smile. He looked tanned, his hair a bit blonder. Then he examined the background. _This ceremony was here, in England._ John had been back, right around the time he had been at the rehab centre. He stood up, grabbed the closest thing to his hand and threw it across the room. _I could have seen him, had I known!_

...

'I can't believe you are on first name basis with Captain Sholto! The man is scary!'

'He can be a bit intimidating because he's always so serious, but he's a nice bloke once you get to know him.'

'How did you do that? Get to know him?'

'He's been my commander ever since I finished training. We've been through a lot here, and last Christmas both of us had no family to visit, so we skipped leave and bonded over that.'

'Speaking of bonding, we've been working together for almost a year now. How come you've never invited me for a drink?'

He smiled at her.

...

He found himself checking for lists of deceased and injured soldiers every day. It had started one day between jobs, but soon it became a daily task. He was always relieved for not finding his name on the lists.

...

'Shut up, Bill.'

'Congrats TC, Claire is hot!'

'Bill, do shut up.'

...

His name still had not shown up on the lists but he couldn't help wondering whether or not John would ever come back to England again.

...

'Liz, why don't you go get some rest? You've been working for ten hours straight.'

'So have you, John. You need my help.'

'I do, but we're of no use to anybody if both of us are exhausted. Get a few hours of sleep and then you can come back and relieve me.'

'Don't make me pull rank, John. You should go first.'

'Why should I?'

'Because you're a man.'

John looked at her frowning, then saw her mischievous smile. He returned her smile.

'I'm still a gentleman. Ladies first.'

She smiled, then became serious again.

'John, you need rest more than I do. You were there and if it weren't for you there would've been a lot more casualties today. Everybody is in stable condition now. Go on, get some rest.'

They argued some more, but in the end John relented. He was really tired.

...

'Good Lord, TC. Lieutenant Liz too?'

'Bill, stop calling me TC, would you? And do shut up.'


	7. War sucks

**A/Note:** Okay, this chapter will be a little more serious, as you can tell by the name... But bear with me, the reunion is coming. ;)

* * *

.

 **7\. War sucks**

.

'John, I'm so sorry.'

'I wished I had been there with her when she was shot. If anything, at least to say goodbye. To hold her hand. To not let her die alone.'

'You made her happy while she was still alive. You had two months together.'

John shook his head and lowered it, ashamed of himself.

'Not sure I did, James. I wasn't in love with her. It was just a convenient thing for both of us. Just to alleviate the loneliness.'

'John, both of you needed that. There's no shame in it.'

...

'You? Exercising?'

He huffed; his brother had walked in on him while he was doing push ups. He dismissed it.

'I need to stay in shape for my work.'

'You said countless times that you find it boring, that you prefer being in shape _through_ work.'

'Well, I don't always have work, do I?'

He would never admit the real reason for it, much less to his brother. He wanted to be in good shape so as to look good naked. Just in case.

...

'Merry Christmas, John.'

'Merry Christmas, James.'

...

His resolve to exercise had waned. It was just extremely boring, no matter how much he tried to vary it. There was nothing going on right now. Bad time to try to quit smoking! God, this was boring. Boring, boring, boring!

He went to his room, locked the door and lay in bed. If anything, this would kill a few hours once his body's chemistry took over and lulled him to sleep. He thought of John again. This time, naked on a tropical beach.

...

'Sit down, John.'

John sat on the hard sofa while James poured him a drink.

'Thanks, James.'

'Heard you had a tough day today.'

John rubbed his face and was grateful for the whisky.

'Too many casualties.'

'I know. How's Bill?'

'Only a leg wound - the lucky bastard - so he'll survive. Might end up with a limp, only time will tell.'

'Are you all right? He's your best friend around here, I imagine you'll miss him.'

John gave a small smile.

'He's one of my friends here. But not the only one.'

James smiled at him.

'He's alive and he'll recover. It's just - not everyone was as lucky. I couldn't save everybody.'

'Yet, you have saved many lives in all your time here.'

John smiled unconvincingly.

...

He had just finished a very interesting job. It had been challenging, fun, with always something to look forward to. It had taken nearly a week of total focus and he hadn't felt this alive in months! The only drawback was that he had to stay in hospital for a couple of days. Thankfully after those two days of constant debate he was finally able to convince the nurses and doctors that he could finish his recovery at home. It was merely a surface wound, after all.

Still basking in his success, he typed in his daily search. His face fell.

John had been in England again! Another medal and this time, a promotion also. _Lieutenant now!_ The article confirmed his initial suspicion that John would thrive in the Army, and that he would be good at his work. His bravery was not surprising. There were no pictures this time though, only names and a brief description of what each of them had done.

Missing seeing him - again - was frustrating. All because of those incompetents at the Hospital.

...

'I believe congratulations are in order, _Major_!

'Thanks, John.'

'Cheers and Merry Christmas, James.'

'Merry Christmas, John.'

They sipped their whiskies, relaxed and sitting side by side in James' office.

'You haven't dated anyone ever since Liz, have you?'

'Nope.'

'Do you miss it? Having someone, I mean?'

'Sometimes. But I'm just tired of these meaningless hook-ups.'

James grunted and they sipped in comfortable silence.

'I've heard of your nickname,' James said.

'Oh, God. That's actually embarrassing.'

'Can I ask you a personal question, John?'

'Shoot.'

'Your nickname. I've always wondered about its actual meaning.'

'I was eh, dating a lot ever since I got here. As the base is quite international, the lads said I had girlfriends in three continents.'

'I've always wondered if it was an allusion to bisexuality.'

John was about to take a sip, when he sprayed his drink, breathed in some whisky and had a coughing fit, his eyes watering.

'Which is perfectly fine,' Major Sholto said.

Once he had almost recovered he frowned.

'What kind of question was that? It has nothing to do with bisexuality!'

'Sorry I asked.'

'It's fine.'

Yet, John couldn't help thinking of a certain night, more than three years ago, sipping whisky in a small sofa...

...

'You of all people should be able to understand me!'

'And I do. But unlike you, I found a way to channel my brain power into something that is utterly rewarding and keeps me constantly challenged and interested. If you would only listen and join me-'

'Boring! Never! There's nothing challenging about politics. It's all about power and control schemes.'

'Then I have no other choice than sending you to the rehab centre. Again.'

He was able to knock out two of the agents, but his brother had brought six men this time.

...

John could feel his heart about to burst out of his chest. He ran towards the man on the ground and skidded to his side.

'James! God, James! Can you hear me?'

James' face was badly burned by the explosion and there was a lot of blood all over the left side of his body. John had to keep pressure on his arm, where the shrapnel had hit. He never got used to this feeling of powerlessness, seeing friends and brothers bleeding in front of him. Only the knowledge that the injured men and women needed him cool headed in order to save their lives kept him from panicking.

'Jn... how many...'

'Shh, James. Don't talk now. We'll get you out of here.'

'...casual...'

'Shh, James. Over here! Bring the stretcher! Call in for the helicopter! James, we'll get you out of here. Please be still. Shhh.'

...

'I can't believe this!'

John stood up angry, gesturing towards the laptop.

'This is outrageous! Major Sholto would never be that callous or irresponsible. He always cared about his men's welfare, that's why he was such a great commander!'

'John, calm down.'

'They can't just dismiss him as if this was his fault!'

'I know John. He was my commander too. But all the families are angry and there's a lot of bad publicity around this. The fact that all of the young recruits died-'

'Blame the bomber, not him!'

...

'Molly, email me this report when you're done, will you?'

'Em, I, eh, I'd love to, but I'm not really supposed to-'

He bent forward and she shrunk a bit under his stare. He sniffed, then frowned.

'Did you change your shampoo?'

'I, wh-, em, I- '

As her mouth battled with itself to form words she almost nodded.

'I like it. Your hair smells nice.'

She smiled, unsure of what to do with her hands.

'Email it to me, will you?'

'Em, I, o-okay.'

...

John sat at the bar and ordered whisky. He stared at the bar counter for a while, then picked up his glass and raised it for a toast.

'Merry Christmas, James,' he whispered to himself.

It had been their tradition. He missed James. He had only replied to one of the first emails, to let him know he was doing well. _Certainly not doing well._ He wished he could talk to him again.

The whisky reminded him of Scott.

Scott... was fire, desire, pure seduction.

God, he was a mess. A lonely and pathetic man. Scott probably had already forgotten him, long ago. What business did he have pining for such a dick?

Just then the loud speakers announced there had been an attack. Soon they'd be receiving injured and dead men. He stood up, leaving the rest of his drink untouched. He had work to do.

...

Well, who knew Armand would prove to be such a useful link? It turned out he had joined a band of more important criminals, simultaneously providing a weak link in that organisation. He had known Armand had a weakness for young underage girls. Using some of his homeless network contacts, he found Rachel, who looked much younger than her actual age. Using her as bait, he had Armand arrested again, and the fear of being locked up for statutory rape had him cooperating quickly.

...

'Congratulations, Captain Watson!'

John felt a woman's touch on his shoulder. He turned, only to see Mia smiling at him.

'Can I buy you a drink to celebrate your new rank?'

'Thanks Mia, but this one is more than enough already,' he raised his pint. 'But please, join me.'

'What you did yesterday was very brave.'

'Five men dead, nineteen injured, three in critical condition. Not sure I deserved it.'

'Sure the casualties were heavy, but that still doesn't diminish what you did. You saved all of those injured that survived. I was there. I saw it.'

John didn't know what to say. He never felt comfortable when people seemed in awe of him.

'I was just doing my job.'

'John, I really admire you. I wish I had that in me. You are so focused you're able to "just do your job". I'm too aware of my own mortality to be able to do what you do.'

'Right. How about you, are you doing okay?'

'Yes, of course.' She paused, looked down at the bar and said, 'Actually, to be perfectly honest, I was a bit shaken yesterday. I feel a bit-. I don't know how you do this.'

'The key is to focus on what needs to be done at the moment. Your duty is to watch for your fellow soldiers. That's all we have, each other.'

She smiled and leaned forward, placing a hand on his shoulder.

'How about this?' She squeezed his shoulder and he sighed closing his eyes. 'Maybe I can help you relax?'

He was surprised, but smiled back.

'Thanks, Mia.'

She gave him a sideways stare. '...But?'

...

He loathed his brother. As he had threatened the last time, he did allow the news of his drug use to get out and now he was on a "probation" period. Didn't they understand? Denying him work would only make the need for drugs more urgent to him. He paced angrily, wriggling his hair.

As usual whenever he had nothing else left, he thought of John. He thought again of the image of John sleeping, his dog tags jumbled on his collarbone. He wanted so badly to kiss and lick that collarbone again.

He sat with his laptop and typed his usual search, only to find out that, while on rehab again, John had been back to receive his third medal. And, due to his bravery, he had been promoted to Captain.

 _Captain John Watson._

He felt ridiculous for thinking such a thing, but the words caused a horribly predictable and eye rollingly stupid reaction in him. He suddenly had an embarrassing vision of John wearing a fluffy long sleeved white shirt opened at the chest, a navy blue and gold coat, tight cream coloured breeches and black boots. They would be at sea for months and Captain John Watson would order him to be his personal servant. His duties would include serving him meals, dressing and undressing him, bathing him and, after some pursuit and struggle, servicing him at his chambers at night...*

As ridiculous and undoubtedly historically inaccurate (not to mention, impractical at sea) as this was, this vision spawned a new and exciting slew of erotic fantasies.

...

'What have you done now?'

He didn't want to open his eyes. He was exhausted. He lost track of how long he had been in this nineteenth century fantasy of his.

'Go away.'

'Why is everything all or nothing with you? Dear God, you and the entire flat stink of-'

'I wouldn't be in this state if I could work. It's all your fault.'

'You are such a baby. When are you going to grow up?'

'Whenever you stop mothering me. It's either this or drugs. Let me work and I won't need any of this.'

He knew his brother was rolling his eyes, he heard the exasperated sigh. His brother knew he would have to allow him to work. Not that his orgy with Captain John Watson hadn't been enjoyable.

...

'Hit the deck, John!'

John was startled. Time seemed to have slowed down. He staggered and looked down at his own chest, surprised at the sight of his own blood.

'John!'

He thought he heard Bill's voice. But Bill wasn't there. He thought of James. The burning pain hit him and he felt faint. He sagged and the world went black.

.

* * *

 **A/Note:**

* As soon as I wrote that, I stared wide-eyed into space: "OMG, I _have_ to write that one," I thought. I even got chapter one started, but it became clear that it would require a lot more time and some research to write a nineteenth century AU. Lol.

Plus, I had to finish this one. :D


	8. Welcome back

**A/Note:** Thanks **Quetzali, ben dot meyer dot 39395** and **Nicklove** (good to see you again!) for favoriting this story. And the funny reviews and messages. All of you out there, you make my day.

Good and bad news: I had misnumbered my original text and I still have ten chapters.

Without further ado, here it is: the reunion. Enjoy!

* * *

.

 **8\. Welcome back**

.

He thought of going into a pub to warm up a little, but one thing that had changed in him after his tours of duty was an aversion to crowded places. Back in Afghanistan, any crowded place always invited attacks. He wasn't as bad as some of his mates, but still felt a little uneasy in crowds.

His leg was bothering him, he needed to sit down a bit. Looking around for options he saw a café across the busy street and his stomach dropped. That was where he had spent some time with Scott way back when. He almost turned around, but the pain was getting worse. He shook his head, who was he kidding? The very reason why he was in this area was some ridiculous notion of trying to recapture that evening, long ago.

He quickly scanned the café from outside the window. Scott wasn't there, of course.

 _Well, what were the odds? It's too early in the evening for him anyway. Plus, he doesn't even live in London, that would be too much of a coincidence. Forget it, you'll never see him again._

He went in and ordered a Chai again, for old times' sake. As he waited, he looked around. The pair of armchairs they had used that time were taken, of course. The café was still cozy, some of the mismatched chairs might be new. He'd love to sit by the fire, but all the seats around it were taken. _Wait, that couple is leaving._ After a while he finally sighed, grateful to rest his leg, in a warm seat with tea. _What more could you ask for? Well, company would be nice..._

Ever since he had woken up at the hospital he had been thinking of _him_. All those years in Afghanistan he had tried to put Scott out of his mind. But being back in England made it harder to bury those memories away and pretend that he didn't exist. It still stung how Scott had left without so much as a note, because - as much as he hated to admit it - he had enjoyed their evening together. And not just because of what happened at the hotel. He had been fascinating, with what he could read in other people with only a quick glance.

He had dated a few (or rather, more than a few) female soldiers at Camp, but nothing serious. In an environment where death lurked around, all of them had developed the coping mechanism of not getting too attached. To fall in love could potentially end in too much pain, madness and despair. After Liz's death, even that got old and he stopped seeking hook-ups.

'Birmingham?'

It took him a few seconds to realise that, first, the question had been directed at him; second, he recognised the voice. Over the years all he remembered of the voice was that it was deep and seductive, but not its actual tone. Hearing it again though, he instantly recognised it. When he looked up, his eyes widened and goose pimples spread throughout his whole body at lightening speed. There he was, standing in front of him-

'I've read most injured soldiers go straight to Birmingham. When did you arrive in London?'

He stared with his mouth open. That voice was like a whirlpool that surrounded and engulfed him in an irresistible embrace of sensuality. And Scott looked exactly the same.

'Oh, come on, John. I know your injury has not affected your vocal chords. Although I would venture to say the cane is unnecessary. The pain in your leg is most likely psychosomatic.'

'That's- you remember my name?'

'Of course, John. O positive, 28740774 Watson, John, C of E.' He sat on the armchair next to him and, with a devilish smile, lowered his tone and arched an eyebrow, 'How could I forget?'

'You!' He tried to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks. It had never occurred to him that Scott would have read (and memorised) his dog tags. 'You left without so much as a goodbye! You just come to me after all these years as if no time had passed and expect me to pick up where we left?'

'Of course. Much has happened in five years.'

'Unbelievable. You are so-'

'Wonderful, skilled, amazing?'

'No, an uncaring, egotistical, self-centred bastard.'

'John, I knew you didn't want to see me in the morning. I just saved you the embarrassment.'

John thought about it, still miffed. Scott was right, of course, he would have been embarrassed. Yet, it would have been nice to wake up, see him smile, kiss and touch him again... instead of feeling like a discarded condom in a rubbish bin. Scott hadn't changed a bit, while he felt older than his years. Now he became aware of Scott's suit and was embarrassed of what he was wearing. Not that he currently had anything else better to wear.

'I have followed your career, whenever I could find news of you. Three medals and now a Captain. Impressive! I told you you would do well in the army. So, allow me to introduce myself properly this time.' He stood up and, placing a hand on his chest, bowed slightly. 'Sherlock Scott Holmes. I actually go by Sherlock.' He sat down again, lowering his voice, 'I only use Scott with people I know I won't be seeing again. It's less memorable.'

John stared, surprised, digesting the words and the implications.

'Hungry?'

'I- uh, yeah. I guess, now that you mention it.'

'There is a good Italian restaurant not too far from here. Once you feel rested we could go. If you like, obviously.'

'Um, let me finish my tea.'

'Of course.'

'But how did you know I would be here?'

'Ah, good question. I keep a network of sorts on the side, to keep me informed. Today I finally got word that you had been spotted in this neighbourhood half an hour ago. Knowing you could potentially be heading to this café, I took a chance and came as fast as I could. While I waited for the light to change I could see you picking up your tea and sitting down.'

'Sorry, I don't understand.' John remembered the talk with the man in the black car. 'A "network of sorts on the side"?'

'I distributed your picture around a few homeless people I know, given their usual spots being in the vicinity of the places we had been together, plus the others on the list I had given you.'

John stared, open mouthed. 'You distributed my picture? To homeless people? Why?'

'It seemed the most logical solution, as I cannot be at all places at the same time.'

'I get that, I mean, why? You left without a word!'

'It's precisely because I made that mistake five years ago that I don't intend to repeat it this time. If you are amenable to it, obviously.'

'Mistake? You mean, you wanted to see me again?'

'John, I'm here. Isn't that obvious?'

John stared some more. 'You followed my career? How did you have my photo?' He widened his eyes, 'Oh God, please don't tell me you took pictures of me while I slept!' He was horrified, imagining a post-sex naked picture of him circulating among homeless people. Or worse, on the internet.

'No, but I should have thought of that. No, I took a screen shot of the article about your first medal.' Sherlock pulled out his phone and showed him. 'It's a good picture of you.'

He remembered that photo shoot. All military personnel receiving medals on that occasion were rounded up while still in camouflage uniforms, before dressing up for the ceremony. Photos were taken individually at the lawn of the military building they were in. They were told to take off their helmets, caps or berets, cross their arms and smile. He guessed it was a PR attempt to make them look less stuffy, but more homely and friendly.

John couldn't believe that Sco- Sherlock had seen that article and continued staring with his mouth open. Sherlock pointedly looked at his wristwatch and added, 'Em, I don't mean to rush you, but if you do want to have a late dinner, I can text Angelo - the restaurant's owner. He owes me a favour and wouldn't mind waiting for us.'

'Erm, yeah, I - let me finish this and I'll be ready to go.' He tilted the rest of his tea, swallowing a little too much all at once, feeling his throat hurt with the huge volume of liquid. He tried hard not to make a face. He didn't want Scott - Sherlock - to see how eager he was. _He probably saw it anyway. Thankfully it wasn't scalding hot anymore._

Sherlock stood up and extended his arm to let John go first. Once outside the café he asked, 'Would you like to take a cab? It's not very far, but if your psychosomatic pain is bothering you we can take a cab.'

'Psychosomatic or not, it still hurts, you dick.'

'Then why are you not really using your cane right now? You're moving it, but not leaning on it.'

John stopped and looked at his cane, as if seeing it for the first time. Then he looked up, 'Look, give me one good reason for me to be talking to you. And why should I even agree to go to this restaurant with you? You put spies on me!'

'Oh, please John, don't be so dramatic.' He took a step forward and stared with such piercing intensity that John felt goose pimples spread on his back and his hair rise. 'The one good reason is that I enjoyed our last time together. And I don't mean just because of what happened at the hotel. I enjoyed talking to you, I enjoyed your company. And I would venture to say you enjoyed mine too. I regretted not staying, I regretted not exchanging contact information, I regretted we only had that one evening together. Another good reason for you to come with me, is that I'm trying to have a "proper date" with you, to show you that you are more than just a good shag to me (albeit an excellent one).'

John's forehead was scrunched up as he pondered about what he heard. Looking into his eyes he still felt it, that strong attraction to this strange man. He had hoped to see him again, but not really thinking it would ever happen. _A date._ He lowered his head, laughing to himself. _He wants a "proper date" with me._ Then he looked up again, a small smile on his face. 'Sherlock, you said?'

'Yes.'

'Interesting name. It suits you.'

'Thank you.'

'You'd better text the bloke. It's getting pretty late.'

Sherlock smirked, 'I already did.'

'When?'

'Just as we walked out of the café.'

 _Very much like him to just know I would say yes_ , he shook his head. 'And he's okay with that?'

He looked at his phone. 'Yes, he's waiting for us.'

'We'd better take a cab and not let him wait too long, then.'

Sherlock gave a lopsided smile and turned raising his hand, 'Taxi!'

He felt his chest was about to burst. If he were the sentimental type he would venture to say it was elation. Except he wasn't (the sentimental type). Yet, he felt his own face deform itself into the widest grin.


	9. A date

**A/Note:** Thanks **weda108** for favoriting my story. And all the follows, reviews, etc.

Sorry this is a shortish chapter. I completely mislabeled my chapters and you might be happy (or not) to know that there are two more left.

* * *

.

 **9\. A date...**

.

'Sherlock! So good to see you.'

'Angelo, allow me to introduce you to my date, Captain John Watson.'

Angelo smiled widely, eyebrows raised, impressed. He turned to John with his hand extended, bowing slightly.

'Pleased to meet you, Captain.'

He was still recovering from the shock of being introduced as "my date".

'John, please,' his voice came out squeaky so he cleared his throat, 'Nice to meet you too, Angelo.'

'This man,' he clasped Sherlock's shoulder, 'saved my life. I was going to prison and he proved my innocence.'

'You _did_ go to prison, Angelo.'

'Only for breaking and entering! Not for murder on the other side of town. Look at me now!' He spread his arm, turning slightly to proudly indicate his restaurant. 'Please order whatever you wish, it's on the house. Let me bring a candle to your table, it's more romantic this way.'

John lowered his head. He still considered himself straight. All this was happening at lightening speed, and so openly. It would take time getting used to all this.

'Blushing suits you, John,' he smirked.

'Oh, shut up.'

'I recommend the tortellini. Would you like wine with your dinner?'

'Erm, yes, fine. Both sound good.'

Sherlock ordered and John stared.

'What?'

'I'm usually the one doing that. Placing the order, asking for wine recommendation and such.'

'Well, I just know the food here and you are my guest.'

John didn't mention that technically they were Angelo's guests; it didn't matter. 'He said you proved his innocence? Were you a witness for the defence or something?'

'Something. I should also tell you I'm not really a pharmaceutical sales rep, like I previously told you - although my background _is_ in Chemistry. I'm a consulting detective,' he smiled proudly.

'You mean a private detective?'

He wrinkled his nose. 'No. There is a great distinction between those amateurs and I.'

John snorted, drawing an affronted look from Sherlock. 'Sorry. I don't doubt you, I just thought it was funny the way you said it.'

'The skills you know I have about reading people, that's what I use them for. The police consults me whenever they're out of their depth - which is always. And when I'm bored, I take private cases. As long as they're not too simple or easy.'

He smiled, he was reminded of everything that Sco- Sherlock had picked up from his watch that one night. 'That explains how you could tell so much about me.'

'I invented my profession _because_ of my skills, I didn't developed them because of my work.'

'Yeah, I get it, that's what I meant. The night we met makes more sense now.'

Angelo brought the wine bottle and while Sherlock did the whole tasting procedure, John thought of the man in the black car. After the wine's approval, Angelo poured him a glass and John took a sip.

'Good wine. Em, your work. Do you get into anything dangerous, or deal with criminals or something?'

'All of the above. Why do you ask?'

'I'm just trying to get a sense of what exactly it is that you do.'

'Exactly what I did when I met you. I observe, I read crime scenes, suspects and I am able to determine what happened, in what sequence, how, by who.'

'That's extraordinary. How many - ah - cases - have you solved?'

'This year so far or in total? Should I include the ones that the police didn't pay attention to because I was still a child? I did solve those, even though they remain officially "unsolved" in the police archives.'

John widened his eyes, 'A child?'

'I started reading about crimes on the newspapers ever since I was eight. Sometimes I could tell the story didn't match the photographs. I tried telling everyone, but I was never taken seriously. I started wearing suits as a teenager in an attempt to appear older and be taken seriously.'

John just stared, mouth open.

'Unfortunately, there hasn't been many interesting cases this year. I've only solved five hundred and eighty four so far, an embarrassing low number. This does not reflect a failing of my abilities, I assure you. Last year, for example-'

'Five hundred- That's more than two a day!'

'Sadly most of those are private cases that I took out of desperation. Oftentimes they are so easy I ask myself "why did I even bother?" They're not worth the minutes spent reading their emails or interviewing the suspects.'

'Minutes? That's unbelievable!' John's mouth hung open. 'Well, can you tell me about a case that you _did_ find interesting?'

Sherlock smiled widely.

...

'Amazing!'

Sherlock was ecstatic.

He had wondered if perhaps seeing John again would be a mistake and leave him disappointed. Would John want so see him again? Would he decline going out to dinner? Or worse, what if he weren't as interesting as he had thought, but boring and clingy?

When he spotted John inside the café he had felt a jolt. Then, in a bit of a shock, he saw John was walking with a cane now. A quick survey showed no other apparent physical disfigurements. Then he noted John wasn't leaning on the cane as he stood waiting for his tea, yet he limped towards the chair. _Psychosomatic pain?_ John squeezed his shoulder briefly after seating; _I_ _njury to the shoulder_ , he determined. He wondered if the injuries would make John diminished to him, but as he waited to cross the street his heart rate sped up. He had waited so long for this. He nearly ran as soon as the traffic had stopped.

As he approached he noticed the differences: John had lost weight, his face was less full, his hair not as short, a faded tan line visible on the base of his nape, with no chain visible. _At least a month of inactive convalescing, has been discharged after the injury._ But once John raised his eyes, Sherlock felt his stomach drop. The battle scars were also present on his face, not as physical injuries, but of things he had seen and gone through. Somehow they only added depth and mystery to his face. The boyishness was still there, only a bit obscured by a more "adult" and serious manliness. The dark blue eyes bore into his soul and the memory of his touch still made him burn.

Their conversation so far, to his delight, was much like what it was five years ago. Despite John's initial antagonism he was just as he remembered him: funny, clever, stubborn, brash, feisty, surprising. It still felt as though they had known each other for much longer; now with the added bonus of him showing interest in Sherlock's work, or as he called it, _The Work_.

All throughout his story about a case (and dinner) John was truly interested and impressed. Most people were squeamish about blood and murder, but not John. He asked questions, some very interesting ones about the bodies. He was enjoying talking to someone else for a change. Almost like having a colleague.

'That's brilliant!'

He grinned; no one had ever said that to him regarding his cases, not even after the arrest of the serial killer that had terrorized London for five weeks. _That is a good case to tell John-_

'Sherlock, I'm really enjoying talking to you, but I think we've kept Angelo for too long already.'

Sherlock's smile faded.

'Erm, maybe we can go to one of those other late night places on your list to continue this?'

'We can go to one of the hotels.' He grinned, John still wanted his company!

John looked down and blinked, flushing a bit.

'Oh please John, I didn't mean _that_. What I meant was, some hotels allow people in their lobbies, just as a pub. You can order a drink and as long as you're not drunk and loud, they'll let you stay. There are a few charming places I know of.'

'The owners owe you a favour?' He smiled.

'Some of them. I know you don't drink much, but you can order something and just hold the glass for as long as you want.'

'All right. Let's do this. Lead the way.'


	10. that keeps going

**A/note:** Thanks for all the reviews, messages and good laughs, you guys make my day!

To clarify, as I told one of the reviewers, there are twelve chapters total. For real. 12. 24/2. 2x6. De Doce. Doze. Tolv. Dodici. Douze. Twaalf. Jiu ni. I completely botched my numbering on the original text. My apologies. I'd include more languages, except I don't know how to add the different graphic accents.

 **Trigger warning:** Slightly darker chapter ahead. John talks about Afghanistan and the events that resulted in his medals and promotions. I realise it might hit close to home to some. Especially today, when it's Memorial Day in the U.S. Thank you to all soldiers and their families, from all over the world, who sacrifice so much for their countries.

* * *

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 **10\. ... that keeps going...**

.

Sherlock flagged a cab and in the few minutes that it took to get one and climb into it he went over his mental notes. All throughout these years he had prepared himself for this. He had researched what "normal" dates were like, what to do and what not to do, all the social cues and nuisances he usually had no use for. There it was, dancing in front of his eyes, "ask your date about her/himself, show interest in her/him, do avoid talking about yourself the whole time." _Bloody Hell!_ John had been so enthralled with his case he had forgotten the dating advice list.

As they settled in the cab, he tried to get back on track, 'Tell me about your medals.'

'I take you've read the articles?'

'Yes, but all of them had only a brief description in one paragraph. Tell me.'

'Well, they make it sound better than what really happened.'

'I seriously doubt it. You wouldn't have received three medals for trifling actions.'

He sighed. 'All right. We were on our way to one of the hospitals in Kandahar - goodwill visits, to form bonds with the community - when we were attacked. We were showered with bullets and had to stop our trucks and run for cover. One of our drivers was shot on the neck before he had a chance to unbuckle himself. It's the worst feeling to see one of our mates going down. All I could think of at that moment was that he was still alive, exposed and in need of medical help. I ran towards him, pulled him out of the truck and behind a wall. I put pressure to the wound until we got reinforcements and were able to evacuate him. Everybody told me later on that there were bullets flying everywhere, hitting inches away from me time and time again as I dragged him to safety. I was so focused I didn't even notice. I'm just glad he survived and recovered. That's all.'

' "All?" John, that _is_ impressive.' He couldn't help but thinking how much alike they were when it came to their work. That focus, Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector Lestrade always said, made Sherlock a moving target and it was only a miracle that he was still alive.

'I was just doing my job,' he shrugged, looking away.

'I disagree,' a different voice said.

Both men looked at the driver, who was glancing at John every few seconds through the rearview mirror.

'Sirs, excuse my interruption. I didn't mean to eavesdrop and I usually don't butt into my customers' conversations. But my son was stationed in Iraq and he died two years ago. He was shot and bled to death before help arrived. Had he someone like you with him sir, maybe he would still be alive today. So no, that was not a small thing you did. I admire your courage; your medal was well deserved.'

John didn't know what to say.

Sherlock was annoyed at the interruption and was about to tell the driver off when John spoke first.

'Em, thanks.' He leaned forward and squeezed the man's shoulder. 'I'm very sorry for your loss,' he said quietly. The driver sniffed and gave a quick nod. 'You should be proud of him,' John said with a final squeeze, then sat back.

'That I am, sir. Thank you. Please don't mind me,' he cleared his throat. 'I don't want to ruin your evening, snivelling like this. I know how precious and short leaves are. We're almost there, to your hotel.' The man's eyes flickered to Sherlock.

John pulled his neck back, his jawline tightening. 'Thank you. But I've been discharged. I'm afraid the bullets finally hit their target,' he thumped the cane on the floor.

'Then I'm happy you've made it back alive, sir. Welcome back. If you don't mind, I'd like to hear about your other medals.'

'Em, I -'

'Go on John.' Sherlock still didn't like the driver's presence and interference, but he still wanted to hear the stories. John's life as a soldier was fascinating and strangely, it produced something akin to pride in his completely unsentimental brain.

John paused. He didn't like talking about those events much. Especially to a complete stranger. But he did understand the driver's interest; in a way it was a tenuous connection to his son's life and death. It always seemed unfair to him, to receive medals when so many died. True, soldiers killed in action often also received posthumous medals. But that was no consolation to the grieving families. Nothing was ever enough.

His discomfort in retelling his stories was such a small price to pay. _This man has lost his son._ He took a deep breath.

'We got a call to rescue a convoy that had been ambushed. The area had rolling hills, so from the ground there wasn't much of a horizon to remain safe. We had men on every crest around us for cover. We were evacuating the injured into a helicopter when there was a second attack. The helicopter had to lift off, but there were still more injured men on stretchers left. We were very exposed and had to retreat behind one of the hills. The last two soldiers that were covering us finally turned to run. One got hit on the leg, the other on the chest. I had stayed behind to ensure all men were safe, so I was their only hope. I lay down on top of the ridge and opened fire as I soon as I saw some insurgents cresting over the hill. The soldier with the leg injury tried to help his mate run while I covered them, but was shot a second time and fell.'

John paused, looking down. He never liked remembering that particular day.

'I held them off, until more of our men came back to help me. With their leaders down, the insurgents were unsure of what to do. I charged forward, firing. Seeing me doing this, the others followed me, firing and giving me cover. The insurgents retreated and scattered away. We all made it back. Both men survived and recovered.'

Both the driver and Sherlock understood the unspoken words: John had killed that day. And by the way he told the story, they also understood the price he paid.

'On the third time, we weren't as lucky. Our convoy was attacked, but this time they had mortars. I tried my best to save as many as possible, but we lost five men that day and there were nineteen injured. Three of which died later on in hospital. Similar to the other times, I pulled as many as I could to safety.' He paused again, then ran a hand over his forehead. 'A medal for this seems ridiculous. The casualties were too heavy that day. And many of the injured men were maimed for life.'

He looked out the window and realised the cab had already parked.

The driver had turned in his seat and was staring at him.

'I know you feel like you didn't do enough, sir. But I'm sure there would've been even more casualties if it weren't for your actions.' He sniffed, looking away. 'My son wasn't as lucky.' He cleared his throat, looking outside his window. 'Yep. Here we are. Please let me buy your ride. It was a short one and it's the least I can do for all you've done for our country and our sons. My small thank you.'

'I- well, thank you. That's not necessary-'

'I insist. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening.' He glanced at Sherlock again.

...

'It bothered you, didn't it?' Sherlock turned his head as he led the way into the lobby.

'Hm?'

'The driver. He assumed we were about to spend the night together in this hotel.'

'I didn't like the sideway looks he gave you. This air of suspicious assumption, almost a reproach. I'm not used to- you know.'

'Well, at least I'm clearly not being paid or paying you for it. It's evident we know each other.'

John snorted and rolled his eyes, 'I'm relieved.'

'But I agree with him, your medals show your actions were no small feat. I wish I could've seen it.'

'I just did my job. Hardly anything different than what many of the others have done.'

'Yet, you rose in ranks somewhat rapidly. Clearly, there's more to it than just "doing your job".'

'Until this bullet stopped me,' he gestured to his shoulder.

'Tell me.'

'Not much to tell', he shrugged. 'I got shot. I vaguely remember being somewhat conscious during the flight. I felt a bit of turbulence. Next thing I knew, I woke up in hospital.'

'What were you doing when you were shot?'

'What else? Trying to pull someone back to safety. To this day I don't know what happened to him.'

John looked around the quaint lobby. It was charming, just as Sherlock had said. The building itself was probably a few hundred years old, at least. After Sherlock exchanged some words with the manager, someone brought out drinks for them.

'Enough about me. Tell me about another case you've solved,' John smiled.

Sherlock couldn't keep his face from stretching into his toothiest smile. 'Oh, you'll love this one! Serial killers always leave something to look forward to...'

For a brief second John wondered why the innappropriate comment didn't repel him, but made him smile instead. Sherlock's enthusiasm was infectious.

...

Sherlock was laughing. He couldn't remember enjoying himself this much where it didn't involve a serial killer. Directly, that is.

'Shh, Sherlock. They'll think we're drunk and will kick us out!' John whispered. Sherlock tried to contain himself, but it only made the urge to laugh stronger. Both snorted. 'Stop it, Sherlock. Seriously, they're going to kick our sorry arses out the door. That was absolutely brilliant, how you solved the case. Ridiculous but brilliant!'

Once they quieted, he noticed John looked sleepy. 'John, you seem tired. Maybe we should take you back to your - bedsit?'

'Oh God, is it that obvious?'

'Nothing to be embarrassed about, I assure you.'

'I'd hate to end this evening. I'm enjoying talking to you. If I doze off it's not because I'm not interested in our conversation. I'm just so relaxed right now, my sleep is catching up with me.'

'Nightmares or insomnia?'

He made a face. _It's useless to deny it, he sees everything._ 'A bit of both, I guess.'

'As you recall, I don't sleep much.'

'Yes, but you like it. I don't.'

He leaned forward in his armchair, 'John. If you want to, you could come to my place...' He trailed off, a little unsure of whether or not this was appropriate. 'Not to shag - unless you want to - I mean, we can continue our conversation in the sitting room and if you do fall asleep, at least you will be on a sofa, not a chair.'

 _"Not to shag, unless you want to?"_ He swallowed. 'Ahem, so em, you live in London now?'

'This "being in town for business" is what I used to say to discourage further entanglements, to keep people from pursuing a relationship with me.' He stared intently now. 'I live here. Always have.'

'Oh.' He paused, once again weighing in the implications.

'John,' Sherlock smiled, 'I assure you I can be a gentleman and respect your virtue.'

After a pause, John snorted. When he glanced back up again, he could tell Sherlock was trying to hide his apprehension. Underneath all his cockiness there was insecurity after all. Staring into his eyes he was reminded of what had attracted him so long ago. Yes, he was handsome in somewhat of an unconventional way. But more than anything, he was unusual, unique and fascinating. He wasn't sure about sleeping with him again, but the pull he felt towards Sherlock was undeniable. No, he didn't want to part and go back to his depressing bedsit, alone.

'All right gentleman. After you.'

* * *

 **A/Notes:** See, **sheifa dot akra**? That's why.

And to **The Cold East Wind** , this is my badass John, putting others' safety first and going head on into battle. Never be fooled thinking that he's just "soft kittens and jam" to me. ;)


	11. and going

**A/Note:** Okay, I'm trying something different in this chapter... Let me know what you think. ;)

Thanks **Clock Rose** , **Gold Moon Flower** and **onofthemfans** for favoriting the story. Sorry if I missed acknowledging you earlier, for some reason I didn't see notifications on my email.

In response to **sheifa dot akra** 's review a while ago, I had debated about John and Major Sholto having a fling. But in the end I thought it would detract from the unique bond John and Sherlock had formed. So I stayed within the BBC canon when it came to James Sholto. They are just really good friends. Sherlock might still be jealous of James, but that's another story. :)

Thanks for the reviews, favorites and follows, I appreciate all of you out there reading this story. Tomorrow will be the last chapter, the **twelfth**.

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 **11\. ... and going ...**

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'Here we are.' Sherlock's smiled faded, only now noticing the mess around the flat.

'So, em, I just moved in (he rushed to take the boxes down from the sofa) a month ago (and shoved them on a corner, precariously balancing one on top of the other), the landlady owes me a favour ("of course", said John) and is giving me a good deal (he collected the piles of paper on top of the coffee table, stopping on his tracks to read something; he caught himself and shoved that pile on top of the boxes) so I took it. It's very well located (he rushed to gather the stuff on the desk) and close to transportation (and shoved all underneath it) - not that I use it - unless it's for a case, of course.

'That's a skull.'

'Yes, my soundboard for cases (he picked the other boxes on the floor and momentarily thought of where to put them). When I'm stuck (and decided to stack them by the window) I tell him about the cases and oftentimes it helps.'

John looked closely. 'And it's not a replica. How come you have it?'

'Em, it was a case, a long time ago. No one claimed it, I just ended up with it. I won't bore you with the details, it was a boring case.' He turned away, trying to decide how to clear the space a little more, and hoping John wouldn't ask more about the skull.

'Is that human?'

Sherlock turned, only to find John pointing at a jar with a heart immersed in formaldehyde on the cluttered kitchen table. 'Well, yes (he rushed and pulled the sliding doors shut to hide the messy kitchen). I was experimenting with that heart. For a case. Anyway (he continued to clear the space between the two armchairs), would you like some tea? I believe I still have some. Would you rather sit on the sofa or the armchairs?'

'Em,' he looked at the piles around the chairs. 'The sofa would be fine.'

'Great, let me see about that tea (he dropped the piles back where they were). Do sit down.'

John looked around. Mess aside, Sherlock seemed to have an interesting array of things. There was an animal skull with horns on the wall wearing headphones (which made him smile), a poster with a skull, a violin sitting on an easel with sheet music, some clearly pencilled in.

'You play the violin?'

Sherlock poked his head in the sitting room. 'Obviously.'

'Did you write all these pieces?'

'Yes,' his voice came from the kitchen, amidst many opening and closing cupboard doors, followed by a quiet "a-ha".

'You'll have to show me someday. Not tonight, it's three o'clock in the morning.'

'Why not tonight?'

'I told you, it's three o'clock in the morning.'

'So? I play at all hours all the time, sometimes all night long. My landlady and the neighbours are used to it.'

'Maybe so. But I can come back some other time, can't I?'

Sherlock smiled to himself. 'Of course. Another time, then.'

John looked at the books on the shelves. Crime, forensics, anatomy, chemistry, botany, insects (mostly flies and bees), encyclopaedias of drugs and diseases, firearms catalogues, assorted foreign language dictionaries. On a side table, there was a stack of newspapers' crime reports, with handwritten scribbles on the edges, mostly insulting people's intelligence and their lack of observing skills, some with a single word and exclamation points.

He continued looking around. It was an odd, old fashioned, yet fascinating flat. It seemed everywhere he looked there were interesting things to see. _Is that a dagger? A harpoon! Who has a harpoon in London? Well, he does, I guess. Money from Argentina and China. A cricket bat. A pipe._

'Sherlock, do you smoke?'

'Why do you ask?'

'There's a pipe in here.'

'Ah. That was for a case. I used to smoke though. Cigs, mostly. I quit, but it's a never ending battle.'

'Good. Filthy habit.'

Sensing John's disapproval he added quickly, 'I have done a study on two hundred and fifty six types of ashes,' trying to restore his image in John's esteem.

'Whatever for?'

'A case, obviously', both said at the same time. Sherlock poked his head in the sitting room again, grinning. 'Once, I was analysing ashes, the only clue available in a case. I discovered that the ashes produced by different brands of cigarettes were distinct enough to pinpoint its origin. That in turn led me to the murderer. Afterwards, I catalogued all the brands I could get a hold of,' he smiled proudly.

'And smoked all of them to see if they tasted different too?' John smiled.

Unsure of wether or not John was teasing or disapproving, he tried to gauge what the appropriate response would be. Not only had he smoked them, but there was an offshoot research that resulted from this. He tried to find out wether or not he could also taste the difference in people's mouths. A short lived experiment ( _test subjects usually were too disagreeable and uncooperative - it wasn't that interesting anyway_ ). But before he could decide on how to answer that, the kettle whistled. 'Ah, tea is coming,' he rushed into the kitchen again. 'I'm afraid I don't have any milk. Or sugar. Or biscuits.'

'That's all right, I don't put sugar in my tea.'

'I know.' After another pause with sounds of drawers opening and closing, the tinkling sound of a spoon on china, he returned with two cups. 'Here you are. Have a seat.'

'Your place is very interesting, Sherlock.'

'Thank you.'

For a couple of seconds they looked at each other, in an awkward silence. Both hurried to speak at the same time.

'When you were at Camp-'

'Have you-'

'Go ahead, John.'

'No, you go ahead.'

'It wasn't that important,' Sherlock waved.

'What were you going to ask?'

Sherlock paused. 'When you were at Camp, did you - date - anyone?'

'Oh.' _The elephant in the room._ 'Well, I did. Nothing serious.'

'Women?'

'Yes.'

'Men?'

'No.'

'Ah.' Sherlock wasn't sure that made him happy or concerned.

'How about you?'

'Me?'

'Did you - date - anyone else?'

'I don't date, John.'

'Well, I meant - uh -'

'No.'

'Oh. Right.'

'After meeting you, everyone else was too boring and stupid.'

'Seriously?'

'You are different.'

'In what way?'

'You make me laugh.'

'Glad to be your comedian.'

Sherlock looked at him with that intensity again, then after a pause, placed his cup onto the coffee table and sat a bit closer. John had eagerly waited for and dreaded this moment.

'John, I-'

'Sherlock, I'm sorry.'

Seeing the hurt look that flashed in his eyes, John spoke quickly. 'I mean, I am attracted to you. Very much so. I'm just not sure I'm ready to sleep with you again.'

'Understood.'

 _Clearly not._ 'Look.' John paused, but couldn't think of what to say next. 'Can we just kiss?'

The smile Sherlock gave him was incredible.

The snogging session that followed even more so.

Unlike last time, he allowed Sherlock to guide him down and lay on top of him. It was strange, he had forgotten how much harder a man's body felt. There was also that extra hardness as Sherlock moved against him. Just like last time, it was foreign, yet not so different. He was definitely enjoying it. A lot.

Sherlock tentatively ran a hand down his side, towards the thigh. Seeing no objection, he moved it all the way back to the chest and squeezed his pec, drawing a breathy sigh from John. He repeated the motion, this time more in the centre, sliding his hand down, feeling up the abs,...

'Stop.'

Sherlock froze.

John panted, gently pulling the straying hand away. 'If you do that, I'm going to come in my pants.'

He smirked. 'Problem?'

'Yeah, I have no extra clothes with me to change into.'

'That's easily solved.'

'How?'

'By removing them first.'

John stopped. He moved, but this time indicating he wanted to sit up, 'Uh, Sherlock. I think we'd better stop.'

'Can you just delete what I just said so we can go back to kissing? Please?'

'Look, I - maybe I should go.'

'No, stay.'

'I really should go.'

'Why? I promised earlier I would respect your virtue. Even if we got naked I would still respect your wishes.'

John felt a little ridiculous. _Virtue. I'm not a blushing virgin._ Truth be told, he was embarrassed of his body. Five years ago, he was in the best shape of his life and his body, young, smooth, unscarred. He feared that this time Sherlock would find it lacking, disappointing, unappealing. But more than anything, there was that scary looming threat, unknown and forbidding, hovering above him. This time Sherlock would surely want to switch roles.

He took deep calming breaths. Looking back up, Sherlock's lips were slightly red and swollen, his cheeks a little flushed. He could also feel his own lips tingling from all their kissing, his own desire still hot and heavy. He wanted this. Looking into his eyes, that black looming threat didn't seem so foreign and scary right now. Well, it was still a bit scary, but in a new, thrilling and exciting way. However they negotiated it, he was ready.

He couldn't bring himself to say or do anything under those piercing eyes that saw everything.

'Can we turn out the lights?'

...

.

.

.

.

 **... and going...**

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 **... and going...**

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 **... go-**

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 _Nnng!_

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 **... gone.**


	12. The morning after

**A/Note:** Thanks **redcatgirl,** **zyke39** and **LotusBlossomGenie** for favoriting my story. And all the funny, lovely and insightful reviews. I always try to write back, this is what is fun about publishing, the back and forth with the readers. It really shows me that there are people out there that think my stories are worth reading. Thanks to all of you who stuck to this story, despite my iffiness with the chapters (I'm not _that_ scattered brained, I swear).

So this is it, the final chapter. Enjoy!

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 **12\. The morning after**

.

He jolted awake, a little disoriented. This was a different bed. Bigger, softer and... He was not alone. Opening his eyes he turned around. Sherlock was there this time, sleeping. He watched the smooth pale back moving with his breathing. It was already broad daylight and, looking at the clock on the bedside table, he was surprised at how late it was. Well, they didn't finish until the first lights of dawn made the bedroom less dark, but it was already past one in the afternoon.

He smiled remembering the previous hours.

He had fully expected a switch this time, and had been a bit nervous about it. He was surprised when Sherlock clearly indicated what he wanted from him.

Once they were lying on their backs, panting, sweaty and exhausted, Sherlock had turned his head to face him, bewildered.

'I didn't have a chance to ask you last time, how did you learn this?'

'I'm an average adult male. I've had sex before.'

'No, I mean, this.' He indicated the wet sheets between them. 'No one else has ever been able to do this to me.'

'What? Give you an orgasm?'

'Noo,' he huffed, 'without touching me.'

'Oh. That.'

'Yes, _that_. All these years I've wondered if perhaps you weren't as inexperienced with men as you claimed.'

John frowned, 'I'm surprised you don't know.'

Sherlock too frowned, he hated not knowing.

'Know what? What did I miss?'

John raised himself on his elbow, looking amused. 'In the army, they address me by my rank. But I'm actually an army doctor.'

Sherlock stared, _how did I miss that?_

'I had already graduated from Uni when I enlisted. I've always had a fascination with both professions, so I found a way to combine them.'

'So when you ran to the injured soldier...'

'I was doing my job _as a doctor_. That's why I was in the group heading to a hospital in Kandahar. And rescuing the convoy that was attacked. And trying to save as many as I could on that third time. I was doing triage on the field.' He looked down and smiled. 'And, as you can imagine, when I wasn't doing emergency surgery, my duties did include taking care of the general health of our men. I had never done anything of this sort (he waved a finger between their hips) before I met you, but I knew what to look for and gave it a go. I guess it was - is - beginner's luck.'

 _That's why he's not squeamish about the blood and gory of my cases. That's how he recognised the human heart. That's why he said "I've got work to do". That's why he asked all those intelligent questions about the bodies during dinner._

Sherlock grinned, this only made John more appealing to him. In a flash, he saw a future with him.

A future with someone else had never been something he had coveted, but now it was as if the gears of a clock had fallen into their slots. He could imagine the laughter, the companionship. He could see himself telling John about the cases. Perhaps John would even agree to help with the investigations by examining the bodies, interrogating suspects, chasing criminals. _A soldier and a doctor!_ He was perfect. Sherlock laughed. John didn't understand why, but joined in, just happy that they were together.

...

 _And he's still here._

His stomach growled. It had been a long and active night and he had slept through half of the day. Many hours had passed since his last meal. He remembered seeing the awning of a café downstairs when they came in last night. Judging by the lack of milk, sugar and biscuits, he thought of going downstairs to get some food and tea for them. He'd love a shower right now, but was afraid of waking him up and spoiling the surprise breakfast.

He brushed his teeth with his finger, found a flannel and took a whore's bath (smiling at the appropriateness of the expression). He got dressed and, as an afterthought, scribbled a note and left it on the bedside table, just in case Sherlock woke up to find himself alone. He waited until he was downstairs at the vestibule to put his shoes on.

Not knowing what Sherlock would like, he ordered both tea and coffee for him, tea for himself and a couple of sandwiches. Sipping his tea as he waited for the food, he let his mind wander, still thinking about the previous evening. Once he looked up at the mirror behind the counter, he was surprised to see his own smile.

As soon as he stepped out of the café he halted, almost dropping the cardboard tray with the cups. He felt the hair on his nape stand up.

The man in the expensive suit was waiting for him, one hand in his pocket, a smirk on his face. Without a word, he opened the car's door.

'I need to get back,' he indicated the tray.

'We won't drive anywhere, this will be quick. I thought you'd rather discuss this in private rather than on the street.'

Just then a little old lady excused herself, walking between them and eyeing them suspiciously.

He sighed and followed the man into the car.

'How did you even know I would be here? Do you have people following him? And why? Who are you? I need answers this time. And I will warn him that he's being followed.'

'No need for animosity between us, Captain Watson. He knows I keep track of him. I assure you, there are no evil motives for my presence here. That man upstairs is my younger brother. I'm Mycroft Holmes.'

'You spy on your own brother?'

'My reckless brother has a tendency of getting himself into all sorts of troubles. I keep an eye on him for his own safety. He constantly outsmart my agents, but I have good back up methods.'

'What exactly do you do, Mr. Holmes, that you have "agents" under your employment?'

'Oh, I just occupy a minor position in the government. "Agents" perhaps makes it sound more dramatic than it really is,' he dismissed John's question with a wave. 'I saw in your files that you have returned unable to perform surgeries due to your shoulder injury, Captain. Or perhaps I should call you Doctor, now that you have been discharged? I was deeply sorry to learn that; quite a blow to such an accomplished army surgeon as yourself.'

John remained silent. He had a hunch he knew where this was going.

'Certainly you cannot live solely off your pension, not in London.'

'Look, if you came here to bribe me, I told you before, I'm not interested. I'm not an invalid, I can still practice medicine.'

'So you would step down from surgery to locum work?'

'Taking care of patients is not a step down.'

The elder Holmes gave him a piercing stare that had a similar quality to Sherlock's. Other than that, they looked nothing like each other.

'My brother is not one to have relationships, yet he went after you, after five years without contact. Why? What is it that made you the exception?'

 _Sod if I know._ He shrugged, 'My awfully good looks?'

'I take the fact that you are here very seriously, Dr. Watson. Sherlock doesn't "see" people. But it appears he's _seeing_ you.'

'Mr. Holmes-,' John caught himself. He didn't care for Mycroft's attitude and innuendoes, but he wouldn't take that bait. He took a deep breath. 'We're done here. Good day to you.' He tried the door handle, but it was locked.

Mycroft gave him a hard stare. 'Before you go, Dr. Watson, I need you to understand this: Sherlock has made bad decisions in his past, some of which almost cost him his life. When I became aware of it, it was almost too late. I vowed to never let that happen to him again, whether he likes it or not. And that does include screening for - unsavoury characters.' Mycroft raised an eyebrow and his eyes sparkled dangerously. He spoke slowly now. 'And I will _always_ intervene if the need arises.'

John felt his grip on the cardboard tray tighten. But to his surprise, Mycroft's expression changed into a more relaxed and agreeable one.

'I've seen your files, Dr. Watson. Very informative and impressive. It tells me that if Sherlock has an interest in you, and you in him, you might yet be the maker of my brother. And believe me Doctor, if that comes to pass, no one would be more delighted than I.'

'A bit early for you to say things like that. And I would appreciate if you let us figure things out on our own, at our own pace.'

'Very well, Dr. Watson.' He pressed a button and the doors unlocked.

John started opening the door when Mycroft spoke quietly.

'Just. Be kind to him.'

John turned around, eyebrows drawn together. Mycroft turned his face to stare straight ahead. 'Good day, Dr. Watson.'

...

When he walked in, he heard the shower. He placed the food onto the kitchen table and saw a note.

If I'm still in the shower when you get back  
(and if my brother hasn't put you off),  
please join me.  
SH

He smiled and in a flash remembered last night's (or early morning's) conversation that had followed once their laughter had died a bit.

...

'I understand now why you wanted the lights out.'

'Mm?' he tried to sound neutral, aware that the bedroom was not as dark anymore.

'You might be uncomfortable about your body and your scars, but there's no reason to feel embarrassed. I felt your scars.'

'I know.'

'So I already know what they look like. And I don't think any less of you for having them. Much the opposite. And even if you are not as muscular as our last time together, you are by no means out of shape.' He turned onto his side and touched John's chest. 'I still enjoy touching you,' he said.

...

John smiled at the memory. He picked up the sandwich bag and the tray with cups and put everything in the fridge. They could warm up the tea and coffee later. He pulled his jumper over his head, turning towards the sitting room to drop it over the armchair's back. Only then he noticed his cane on the floor, by the sofa. He had gone downstairs and back up without it.

He blinked, surprised. Then he smiled and turned towards the bathroom.

.

J+S

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 **A/Note:** Oof. Too late and I'm too sleepy. I might have to fix typos tomorrow...

Thank you for reading. This is the end. Leave me a note if you can, that would make me really happy. :)

Happy shipping,

BJ

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 **Update:** There were some guests reviews towards the end. In case it was one of reviewers with whom I had been exchanging messages, as they were posted by guests I couldn't reply to you. But I appreciated the comments, especially about how "Iceman-esque" my Mycroft was. I enjoy writing him, it's fun.

The note on the table originally didn't mention Mycroft, but then I figured that Sherlock would already know it, even without looking out the window. Including that on the note put John at ease, so he wouldn't have to start an awkward conversation about being approached by his brother with the bribe offer. Sherlock would also know that John would be weirded out about it and wouldn't want to waste time with that while they could be groping in the shower. Or whatever it is that they end up doing in there. ;)


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